


Two Halves Are Not a Whole

by Phantomato



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Feels, M/M, Sane Tom Riddle, Slow Burn, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 49,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27614306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomato/pseuds/Phantomato
Summary: Tom Riddle and Severus Snape are startlingly similar: half-blood heirs to noble houses, close friends of the Malfoy brothers, academically talented and intelligent, and despite all that, working as shop clerks after Hogwarts. When they keep meeting accidentally, Tom decides to pursue the intriguing man as a curiosity. The decision will force both to confront their difficult pasts and their understanding of friends and family.—This is very much an AU, and it mashes up the Tom Riddle and Marauders eras so that everyone’s roughly the same age.
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy & Tom Riddle, Lucius Malfoy & Severus Snape, Tom Riddle & Tom Riddle Sr., Tom Riddle/Severus Snape
Comments: 230
Kudos: 211





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome! I love the parallels between Tom and Severus, don’t we all, and in the spirit of radically self-indulgent AUs, I present this take on what it might have been like for the two to have been the same age.
> 
> This fic assumes that the characters from the Riddle era (1930s–1940s Hogwarts) and the Marauders era (1960s–1970s Hogwarts) are all the same generation and attended school in the 30s–40s. Essentially: parents and children are (mostly) now cousins and siblings. I’ll explicitly address the ages and relationships of characters when needed for clarity.
> 
> My plan is to get Tom and Severus together, eventually, but only after meandering through a bunch of their non-romantic relationships. I really want to explore these boys at an age where they’re pretty disappointed in their lives, but still young and not yet jaded. I welcome your comments and reactions!

It was a cool Tuesday afternoon in early winter, the one weekday that Tom Riddle had time off from his sales job at Borgin & Burkes, and he was fitting in some errands outside of the weekend rush hours. He could always go out on Sundays, but the crowds made him anxious—too much opportunity for someone to stare at him, or, worse, try and talk to him. That happened more often, these days, in the years since he had formalized his heirship. The same people who would stop him now would have spat at him during his school days, when he was still assumed to be a mudblood. Therefore, Tom shopped on Tuesday afternoons, when the stores were empty, and he could browse for potion ingredients in peace.

“You don’t want those.”

Tom was roused from his state of concentration by the smooth baritone voice of the clerk behind him. Somehow, the man had managed to leave his position behind the apothecary’s counter and move noiselessly to watch Tom pick through the stock of beetle eyes, and had Tom not been a man of supreme control, the shock of the clerk’s sudden presence would have caused him to startle. As it was, he simply placed the metal scoop down with a forceful click.

“I very well know what I want for my brewing, thank you,” Tom’s response was clipped and unfriendly as he acted every inch the offended and entitled customer. It was his right to browse and buy his damned ingredients in peace, wasn’t it? Here in Diagon, he should be allowed to enter a bloody apothecary without enduring patronizing comments based on his mixed-blood status. His heirship was interesting gossip to even the most proud pureblood families, but plenty of magical folks still liked to condescend to Tom based on his relative inexperience with the wizarding world.

“I’m sure that you do, Riddle,” the clerk’s deep voice drawled, “but I am telling you that regardless of what you’re brewing, you don’t want to waste your money on those desiccated old eyes. If you were going to juice them, substitute for half the weight in beetle carcasses. If you were going to chop them, mix diced spider eyes and powdered beetle carapace in a 3-to-1 ratio at the same weight.”

The use of Tom’s last name would have been sufficient to get his attention, but the suggestion of alternate ingredients was what really made him turn his head toward the clerk. The man was tall, thin in a gangly way, and around Tom’s age. His face would have been described as sharp and aristocratic if not for his large, hawkish nose and pronounced brow, which made him quite imposing. He almost had the handsome features of an old pureblood family, but something slightly rough left him looking unusual and out-of-place, though still compelling. His skin was incredibly pale in the way that skin can only be when rarely exposed to natural light, unlike the healthy pale peach of Tom’s own, and it contrasted strikingly with his pure-black hair and eyes. He wore his hair straight and long, pulled back into an orderly queue not unlike Lucius Malfoy, but the effect was somehow less poncy on a man so clearly comfortable with doing his own labor, if his ink-stained fingers were any indication.

And then it clicked for Tom: “Oh! Wolf bait. Er—Snape. I know you.”

Snape’s scowl darkened at the old nickname, but, acting as the professional shop clerk who could be fired due to a customer complaint that he was, he refrained from snapping at the potential customer. All he did was say, “So will it be the carcasses or the spider eyes, then?”

“Carcasses, thank you.” Tom watched Snape measure the dead beetles with a degree of precision that was wholly unnecessary for someone who was just a shop clerk. He paid for his ingredients and left quickly after their brief exchange, putting the unexpected reappearance of his old house mate quickly out of mind.

* * *

Severus needed a gift for Lucius and Narcissa. The Malfoys’ Yule celebration was drawing near, and this was the first year that Lucius was stepping up to host the party, his father having recently started preparing his eldest son to take on the mantle of Lord Malfoy. He had precious little money to spare for something, even if it was a present for the Malfoys, so he headed to the age-old haven for thrifty Slytherins, Borgin & Burkes. He spotted a well-priced necklace in a display case, definitely cursed but fixably so, that Narcissa would appreciate.

“You don’t want that,” an amused voice rang out from across the shop. Severus scowled darkly, turning on the spot immediately to project his displeasure at whatever idiotic clerk deigned to interrupt his browsing. His dark eyes landed on the light grey-brown pair of his companion, a tall, patrician figure with immaculately-styled dark brown hair and spotless, neatly-pressed robes worn over a handsome linen shirt and wool trousers.

“Riddle,” Severus growled. “You work here?”

Riddle scoffed and waved a manicured hand dismissively. The boy had always been one for keeping up appearances, not that it ever helped him much with most of their pureblood classmates, Severus thought. “I either work here or I’m standing around and giving advice for free. Which do you suppose it is?”

“Some advice,” Severus remarked sarcastically. “Was I incorrect about the beetle carcasses?”

He watched Riddle’s expression shift in the nearly-imperceptible way of expressing displeasure that every Slytherin seemed to know, and mentally awarded himself a point for getting under Riddle’s skin. “The brew came out... acceptably well, yes.”

“So, please tell me, is there a reason you’re repeating my line back to me, or are you just bored and overly clever?” Severus was, as usual for his nature, unfortunately blunt. Riddle seemed to have caught on to his moods, though, because now he continued as if nothing were amiss.

“You won’t break the curse on that necklace, and I doubt you—or whoever you would give it to, if it’s not for yourself—is interested in regrowing their teeth any time soon,” Riddle recited in a bored tone, as if he didn’t seem to really care about whether the recipient would be dissatisfied. Clerking for Borgin & Burkes must inure someone to the curse accidents; Severus wondered how that impacted customer satisfaction. Slug & Jiggers required a much more proactive effort at accident prevention from its employees.

Still, Severus found himself somewhat offended by the assertion. Sure, Riddle had been incredibly smart in school, but Severus’ own capabilities in Defense had been the highest in his year, and he had not let his skills go fallow. “I assure you that I am more than capable of breaking this curse, Riddle,” he said, unintentionally echoing the man’s own sentiments when he had been corrected in the apothecary last week.

“It’s not your capability that I doubt, Snape.” Riddle still looked bored. He was tallying something in the shop ledger as he spoke. “It’s your time investment. The curse bounces between the gemstones, as I have already noted on the item card—” he flicked his wand and the white cardstock bearing the price of the item flipped over in front of Severus, revealing tidy script, “—and there are hundreds of diamonds in that pavé setting. I believe my estimate was around 150 hours to dismantle each repetition of the curse?”

Severus begrudgingly read the small writing, grunting in confirmation that Riddle had recalled his calculation flawlessly.

“It’s a shame,” Riddle continued. “It is a nice piece at a good price. Most of our jewelry with serpent imagery tends toward the sinister, not the pretty.”

Severus let out a small laugh. “And our house likes to think we are subtle.” 

Riddle managed a grin that looked almost genuine. “Truly. May I suggest an alternative, then?”

Severus nodded and Riddle stepped out from behind his post, finally, to meet him on the shop floor. He was struck by the size of the man—Riddle had been a year younger, and always somewhat thin and weedy, but the years since Severus’ graduation had made the man broad-shouldered and fit. They must be nearly the same height, but where Severus had retained the whipcord build of a sighthound, Tom had become something much more enviable. It figured that the too-pretty Slytherin mudblood would have only continued to be genetically blessed, even if that had not helped him escape the fate of being a shop clerk. The prat probably made a killing on commissions.

“In the same vein, this bracelet would charm any serpent-lover, though it tends to bite and latch on for a few hours at a time. I removed the poison, though one could replace it if desired. Or,” Riddle removed an elegant black vase from a display case, “in a similar price range, this is enchanted to replenish itself with fresh flowers from the same plant weekly.”

“What’s the catch?” Severus asked, eyeing the item suspiciously.

“No catch,” Riddle smoothly assured. Yes, he absolutely worked on commission. “It’s rather banal, which is unattractive to many of our regular in-store customers, but it would make for a reasonable gift.”

Severus shrugged. “The vase, then.”

“And can I gift-wrap this for you?” Riddle was already sorting through a box of ribbon beneath the register, and Severus acquiesced. He would only have forgotten to wrap it until the day of, anyway.

They selected an elegant pewter color for the paper, and Riddle deftly folded it around the vase’s curved form, his long fingers working each pleat expertly. He had good hands for potions. Severus would have liked a chance to see those hands in a lab. Too soon, the item was dressed and paid for, and Severus did not linger as he left the shop.

* * *

The Malfoy Yule celebration was overcrowded and pretentious, as usual, and Severus supposed this counted as a success for Lucius’ first go at organizing the event. It was still dreadful torture for Severus, though. He escaped the main hall after the first hour and sought his usual hiding place in a secluded alcove not far from the entrance to the gardens, where he could sulk and drink in peace until it was late enough to take his leave.

“Oh, we must stop running into each other like this,” an unfamiliar male voice crooned into the darkness of Severus’ retreat.

Severus spun sharply, glaring at the interruption, and groaned when he saw Tom Riddle, wearing much-too-nice silk brocade robes and a charming smile.

“You would be here,” he complained.

“You detest me so much? I never thought you earnestly believed in the usual prejudices, half-blood Prince.” Tom was still smiling, but something unpleasant flashed through his grey eyes even as he adopted a nonchalant pose, leaning against the opposite wall in Severus’ hidden alcove. “Abraxas managed to get over it by my fifth year, but you’re still holding on? Too good for the Slytherin mudblood, Wolf bait?”

Severus jerked his head in a gesture of disagreement, though whether it was in response to the old nicknames or the sentiment, Tom would have been hard-pressed to say. “Not that, Riddle. Salazar, get over yourself. Or were you hoping that if you found me out of the main hall, here, after curfew, you might get a foot in with Lucius and nab the Head Boy position for Malfoy Manor? Oh, wait—we are long past the era of Hogwarts distinctions. We’re just two shop clerks with the right friends, skiving off from the expected glad-handing. If you want to drink out here, do it _quietly_.”

Tom scrunched his nose in an expression of distaste but stayed put, examining the tall black-clad man beside him. Severus was dressed in a severe, conservative wool ensemble that could hardly be called festive for the Yule celebration, but it suited his stark features. The fabric itself was unembellished, unlike Tom’s dress robes, but Severus wore an elegant silk cravat and sharp, shined dragon hide boots to complement his outfit. He’d left his hair loose this evening, and it fell forward to cast shadows that highlighted the near-gauntness of his cheeks. He looked every bit the mysterious man that should be lurking in a shadowy alcove, and no matter how surly, he was certainly more interesting company than returning to the main gathering and listening to a herd of purebloods discuss their chalets.

He would not sit here silently, though. “You’re here through Lucius, then? Isn’t he six years older than you?”

“Yes,” came Severus’ terse reply. He was still uninterested in conversation and made every attempt to channel that to Tom. 

Tom was stubborn. “Funny, that. One wonders why Lucius might have taken pity on a half-blood boy so many years younger than himself. He would have had every reason to ignore a first-year, as you were.”

Severus clenched his jaw, and Tom watched the muscles jump with rapt attention. “We are cousins.”

“Mmm. My dear friend Abraxas never mentioned that, did he?” Tom made a show of inspecting his perfectly-even nails, as though he were not a dirty low-born shop clerk crassly rifling through Prince family drama at a society party, as though his pretty face came from his Wizarding side.

“Abraxas would have been named Prince heir if my mother were not older than his.” Severus wasn’t keen on sharing personal details, but he also wasn’t precious about the sordid dealings of his mother’s wretched family. It would gall Abraxas Malfoy to know that his charity-case friend knew how he had come second in two inheritances. Even Tom Riddle could claim an heirship, though it was worth nothing more than the eventual promise of an empty title. 

“Severus, you are much more interesting than I anticipated.” Tom’s smile was genuine tonight, a thing of beauty that illuminated his face and made Severus want to step into the man’s orbit; he stepped further back into the alcove instead. “Tell me, how much longer will you keep up the pretense of being a humble clerk? Do you enjoy playing at the working man’s life?” His smile had turned animalistic, all carnal impulses and neat, white, white teeth. As Severus stepped further back, Tom trailed him into the alcove, his presence blocking the light and casting a long shadow into the already-dim space.

Severus did not scare easily. He was not afraid now. He did recognize that he was being trapped.

“Some forty-odd years, I figure,” he let his voice, his main asset, project self-assurance out to the intruder. “Uncle Tiberius must die first, and though he cannot disinherit me due to the protections employed by my grandfather, he can bar me from accessing anything of note.” He let the unfairness of his situation overwhelm his emotions, and baring his own teeth, all jutting canines and old yellow nicotine stains, he advanced on Tom. “I make no pretense at my privation; I assure you it is hard-won. You were never the only unfortunate in Slytherin, Riddle.”

The two men were close, now, smile to smile, and a strange energy whispered in the air around them. Tom’s grey eyes met the black ones before him, and both felt the other’s subconscious mental probe, and both met the firm walls blocking those minds. It was a strange impasse, a situation neither had encountered before in their young lives, and they stepped back quickly.

Severus looked confused, his brow furrowing as though he was calculating what the other snake would do next. 

Tom looked pensive, seemingly contemplating the unexpected nature of their conversation. He was the first to move.

“I do mean it, Severus,” he reached out and took the other man’s left hand between his own two. They had the same long fingers, though Tom’s were delicate and cared-for, and Severus’ were calloused and stained. “You interest me. And you are correct, I have fewer achievements to draw in new friends these days. Perhaps, as a fellow shop clerk, you might spare me the time?” 

Damn his pretty face, he looked almost hopeful, and Severus realized, too late, that Tom had set him up. He could hardly reject the offer now that he had so vehemently asserted the equality of their current positions.

“Fine, Riddle,” he assented. “You’ll get your tea date.”

Tom’s smile was radiant as he brought the trapped hand to his lips, kissing Severus’ stained and scarred knuckles in an outdated gesture that shocked the older man into stillness. With his pretty head still bent low over Severus’ hand, angelic waves falling into grey-brown eyes, Tom promised, “Severus, it will be my pleasure.”

Tom disappeared from their private retreat with the grace and confidence to rival any pureblood, and left a disoriented Severus, his heart pounding rapidly and feeling oddly bereft, in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

Neither Malfoy brother was especially tall. Lucius was quite a respectable height, and well-built, so that his presence filled a space—eyes turned to him when he entered a room, his broad shoulders commanding attention befitting the first son of the wealthiest British wizarding family. Abraxas was both much shorter and much thinner than his brother. He had the sort of narrow and lanky build that made his height difficult to determine, the skinniness of his limbs emphasizing their length. He lived in that sort of contradiction: the build of a tall man paired with a shorter stature, the worthless second son of a wealthy family. It did not make him a happy man, but he was expert at projecting whatever mood he needed.

Tom liked Abraxas because of the contradictions that he personified. Abraxas should have been the Prince of Slytherin, but his perfect older brother had been Head Boy before Abraxas even got to start at Hogwarts. Everyone who would have sought to curry his favor knew not to waste time on the boy who would never be heir. That left Abraxas with no purpose in his school years, no reason to play the typical social games of their house, and enough guaranteed wealth in his listless future to allow him to hold himself independent from any emerging factions among his peers. Oh, he called Tom a mudblood, everyone had, but he’d never said it out of fear. If Tom was smarter and more powerful than Abraxas, well, he would still need to politick and fight and prove himself over and over again to accomplish anything. Abraxas had no future in any sphere that mattered and so he felt no distress that Tom could steal it from him. The only path to becoming Abraxas Malfoy was to be born as the spare. Tom respected his friend’s embodiment of impotent privilege. 

When Tom called on Abraxas the day following the Malfoy party, the second son greeted his friend in the usual manner. He enabled the floo in his private parlor and stood to attention in front of it as Tom came through.

“Afternoon, old chap,” chirped Abraxas cheerily, slapping Tom on the back too forcefully.

“Afternoon, good fellow,” Tom returned in kind as he winced.

The men smirked at each other, content in their own cleverness, and settled down for tea. Abraxas lounged indulgently along the full length of a sofa, his limbs splayed wide to hang languidly over every edge in a manner that would seem almost a parody of his station if he wasn’t so bloody rich. Tom sat upright on a wingback chair that might well have been in the parlor specifically for him. It was the only remotely foreboding piece of furniture in the room, a dark grey velvet that stood out amongst the pale silk brocades which Abraxas typically favored. 

The tea was a pretense in every visit, and neither man actually finished their cup. Still, it was brought and prepared for them both, though the milk in the creamer would sour and the sugar would cake from the steam over the course of their long visit. Only once that ritual had been completed did they begin to talk.

“I met your cousin,” Tom ventured, not specifying any further details.

“Oh, my cousin?” Abraxas answered, as if he had more than one.

“Indeed,” the dance continued, “He’s a dour sort.”

“That’s an understatement when discussing Severus,” Abraxas said with an expression of distaste. “I’m not sure the man has ever experienced joy. If he has, he hides it well.”

“Yes, see, I was hoping to pick your mind on that. It surprised me that you had been hiding your relationship with Severus Snape, Abraxas. I thought we were friends.” Tom’s tone was reproachful as he gazed down at the loutish blond pouting on the couch.

Abraxas ran a hand through his hair, mussing the short cut. He never did manage to keep it pristine. “Severus is hardly worth the gossip. He had a rough go of it in school, we all know that, and he works as a menial brewer now.” He waved his hand dismissively, skirting over the way the implications of that statement would insult Tom. The two friends resolutely never discussed class. “He’s nothing more than a sour, unhappy man raised in the Muggle world, even if he is a Prince.”

“Ah,” Tom corrected, “I heard that he is _the_ Prince. He’s supposed to be the heir of the house, set to inherit from your uncle.” He could afford to indulge in a bit of spiteful prodding after Abraxas so callously reminded Tom of the status of his own menial occupation.

“Yes. Grandfather Prince was quite clear that Severus should be heir,” Abraxas responded tightly. Even his normally-loose shoulders had squared a bit when the topic of heirship had been broached. Tom simply waited out the silence. “I’m thankful, really,” he stated unconvincingly. “Taking on the role of Head of House Prince? Given the state it’s in? It would hardly be worth the effort.”

Abraxas stared at the floor for a long period of time, clearly contemplating the alternative version of his future in which he would have been a Lord. Tom knew his friend too well to be fooled by the affected disinterest; Abraxas enjoyed his life and would have moaned about the work of restoring the reputation of a noble house, but there was not a Slytherin in the world that would have refused the challenge. “How did Severus end up as heir? I remember him as a poor half-blood.”

This cheered up Abraxas, who delighted in poking at others. “We all thought you were a mudblood and look at how that turned out. Uncle Tiberius never married; Merlin knows why not. Lucy took a shine to Severus, he’s always been sentimental about family, and helped him meet all of the Princes. Apparently it was our Grandmother who disinherited Eileen,” Tom noted that Severus’ mother was not bestowed the honorific ‘Aunt,’ “And as much as Uncle disliked Severus’ parentage, Eileen had been the oldest child. I think she was Grandfather’s favorite and he wanted to make sure she was taken care of. Perhaps that’s where Lucy got his sentimentality.”

“Yes, yes, but _when_ did Severus get named heir? Was he still in school? Why hadn’t I heard about it?” Tom pressed his friend for more, frustrated that Abraxas was dwelling on aunts and uncles and Merlin-damned Lucius instead of the man at issue.

“Just before the end of his seventh year, our sixth. He insisted on not publicizing it, but Severus is the type to not announce his child until it starts Hogwarts, so that was no surprise.” Abraxas made a dismissive gesture that indicated just how little he respected the idea of not wanting to be the center of attention. Tom had no siblings of his own, but he thought it might be a second child thing. Firsts and onlies got attention just for existing.

Tom did rush to clarify Abraxas’ statement, barely concealing the shock from his expression. “He has a child?”

The blond looked taken aback at the question. “Salazar, Tom, no. You didn’t—what is your interest in my cousin?”

Abraxas was eying Tom too shrewdly for his liking. He tried to divert, saying, “I have to be sure about these things, after everything you have considered unimportant to disclose to me. So, he’s really locked out of all of the Prince assets until your uncle passes?”

His friend stared at him for a long time, clearly weighing whether to let Tom’s topic change succeed. Tom thought he had won the standoff when Abraxas initially affirmed the details of the Prince inheritance, but his expectation of victory had been too quick. “Tom,” it was never good when Abraxas used his name, “whatever your interest in Severus—you need to be careful. Lucius is extremely protective of him. He made Severus Draco’s godfather, for Salazar’s sake. A half-blood is the godfather of Narcissa Black’s child.”

Tom ignored Abraxas’ imploring eyes as he pretended not to understand why the other man was sharing this. “Your point, Abraxas?”

“You are not the gentlest with people who catch your interest. Severus is a prideful git and would never ask for help,” Abraxas started with clear disdain, as if any of the people they knew were not prideful gits, “but Lucy is too observant for you to get away with the same type of behavior you used to have in school. I know you don’t know Lucius very well, but you must trust me that he’s not one to be cowed like the boys that were in our year, and he won’t be fooled by your charm like the professors, either. I will not come between my brother and you if he finds a reason to take issue.”

“You’re useless, my good fellow,” Tom grumbled after a moment’s contemplation. It was as close to acknowledging the warning as he would get.

“I have cultivated my uselessness for years, old chap. My thanks to you for noticing!” Abraxas was smirking again, and both men relaxed as the tension ebbed. “But—really, Tom? You’ve taken an interest in Severus, of all people?” Tom blushed hotly despite himself, and Abraxas laughed at his friend. “Oh Merlin, you’re serious! I thought I might be wrong, especially given your history. You hardly need to chase a half-blood Prince when you’ve had multiple Blacks sniffing around. I hoped it might be some political thing… What even is the appeal?”

“Don’t be so crude!” Tom threw back in a weak defense of himself, embarrassed to have been caught out. Abraxas was one to openly discuss social and romantic entanglements, but Tom shied away from such personal topics when he could. “And it’s nothing you would understand, anyway.”

Abraxas snorted. “That is true for many reasons.”

Undaunted, Tom continued. “He always set himself apart from the rest of our house—”

“That sounds familiar, and is also a much-too-polite way to describe an awkward loner,” Abraxas pointedly interrupted.

“—and I thought he was just a bad-tempered nobody, but then I find out he’s been hiding a future as a somebody for years. And what feeds pride in someone like him? How does a man like Severus, with his father and his school history, manage to carry himself as he does?” Tom mused with no sense of irony.

“I don’t know,” Abraxas drawled, “have you tried asking a mirror?”

This set off Tom, and his temper flared as he seethed, “I am not the same as him.”

“Oh, I think you are more similar than you’re admitting! Is that it, then? Pure narcissism? Muggle father, Muggle upbringing, loners in your school years, too smart for your own good. I see everything except the physical. People used to compare him to a bat, you know.” The blond’s tone was teasing and Tom further soured, always unhappy with being the subject of casual banter. 

“He does not look like a bat, and those similarities are shallow.” Tom’s face took on a petulant expression that he would have vehemently denied ever showing. He sidestepped the discussion of Severus’ attractiveness as he continued speaking. “He has wizarding family, unlike me, even if he didn’t get to meet anyone other than his mother until he started Hogwarts. A family that doesn’t like you is still a foothold in this world. I have a raving mad uncle who has only brushed shoulders with the wizarding world when he was sent to Azkaban for cursing my bloody Muggle father, who doesn’t even know that I exist.”

“That part is really on you, old chap. Have you thought about a letter?” Abraxas quipped easily, but Tom ignored him and barreled into his next point of dissension.

“And the Prince vaults are hardly comparable to your own, but they have enough to support a modest life at a fucking _ancestral mansion_ , even if he has to wait for your spiteful old uncle to die first.” Tom was really wound up, now. “When my uncle dies, all I get is a political obligation and no funding to fulfill it. I’ll be another absent Lord Gaunt, except anyone who likes can come mock me as I make a living as a bloody shop clerk.”

Abraxas continued to try humor as a solution to the brutal socioeconomic realities of Tom’s life. “Now, friend, I have heard that you’re a fantastic shop clerk.”

“Not the bloody fucking _time,_ Abraxas,” Tom spat back.

They sat in silence for a long period, the blond attempting to pretend as though nothing at all uncomfortable had just transpired, and the dark-haired man attempting to calm himself back down to an acceptable level of irritation. Politely ignoring difficult conversations was the foundation of every good Slytherin relationship.

Once Tom felt reasonably more centered, he decided to indulge Abraxas as a pseudo-apology, rather than continue to rant at his friend. “How would I write to my father, anyway? ‘Dear dad, no thanks for abandoning mum, but I turned out okay despite that and your Muggle blood. Oh, and I can do magic—did you know about that? Would have been helpful to know as a lad. Yours, Tom Junior.’” Tom rolled his eyes in a highly exaggerated manner. “How idiotic.”

Unfortunately, the absurd approach backfired on him, as Abraxas giggled madly. “You _must_ do it now, you know. Aren’t you at all curious to know how he would react to you?”

“Of course I’m bloody curious,” Tom dismissed. “But I am not interested in actually living through some Muggle’s panic and fear.”

Abraxas, who could not possibly comprehend the complexities of Tom’s family, pushed on. “You said he was a wealthy Muggle, though, correct? It would be so much easier for you if you worked something out. You could afford to stop clerking and pursue that Wizengamot seat in earnest.”

“It’s not my money,” Tom grit out.

“Bollocks!” Abraxas’ exclamation was unusually crude, coming from his mouth, and Tom sat up straighter in surprise. “It’s your money if it’s anyone’s. You’re not even a bastard; you showed me the marriage license. Muggles might be filth but I thought even their legal system had inheritance laws.”

“That’s not—” he tried, but Tom couldn’t find a way to express his position in words Abraxas would understand. Abraxas had a family, if not quite a perfect one, and they had raised him and cared for him since birth. His inheritance was his due. His part of the Malfoy fortune had always been set aside for him. Tom Riddle Sr. did not know he had a lawful heir, had not spent the past two decades funding that heir, and no matter what the law said Tom was owed, even he recognized that a person’s feelings did not simply flip like a light switch with the introduction of new information. Riddle Sr. wasn’t likely to accept his son so easily.

Oh, Merlin, he was thinking in Muggle analogies. All this talk of his fucking Muggle father was a bad influence.

And aside from the legal questions or any thought of Riddle Sr.’s emotions, Tom was still blisteringly angry at the man. It was an internal sort of anger, something he rarely exposed, but it burned inside of him as a constant wound. He had to keep it alive, no matter how much it hurt, or he would have to feel the fear and loss that would take its place. That was not acceptable.

He sighed as he conceded the topic. Slytherins learned how to evaluate whether a matter was worth their continued effort. “Some day, perhaps, I’ll get you to write it for me and we’ll go scare the useless man into signing over his fortune.” That this would not happen was not an issue for Tom; simply saying the words made Abraxas happy again.

“Good. Then you can buy me dinner,” Abraxas laughed.

“That was the one time!” Tom insisted, mortified at any reminder of favors owed, but simultaneously glad to see the back end of that topic.

Order was thus restored, and they could move on to other things. Abraxas had apparently Confunded Avery into making a fool of himself in front of his fiancée, which was a nice spot of petty revenge for the insulting thing he’d once done to Tom. They didn’t discuss that, and Avery had likely paid for it many times over by now, but that would never stop Tom and Abraxas from holding a grudge. Lucius had apparently given some self-important speech, as the rising Malfoy patriarch, and Abraxas was convinced their father had almost nodded off halfway through it. Abraxas needed an outlet for all of his petty gossip, and though Tom was hardly an interested audience, he’d long since learned to nod and murmur appreciatively until his internal timer ran out. One hour and three minutes later—Abraxas never noticed Tom cutting him off since Tom had added the extra three minutes—Tom stood and made his excuses.

“Come by again next week,” Abraxas encouraged his friend. “We’re hosting the Lestranges, courtesy of Narcissa, and I will be bored to tears without you to help me needle Bellatrix.”

“Mmm,” Tom began to demur.

“Oh, come over, or I’ll write your damn father myself.” Abraxas probably wouldn’t dare, but he was always good with crafting a threat.

Tom wondered why something that should be so meaningless still had the power to influence him even as he begrudgingly agreed to his friend’s plans.


	3. Chapter 3

Sunday afternoons in Lucius Malfoy’s wing of the ancestral manor were reserved for receiving friends and family. Lucius and Narcissa started the practice a year into their marriage, and now, nearly a decade later, it had become an unalterable tradition. They set their largest parlor for tea and snacks, sometimes entertaining just a few guests, and sometimes receiving a dozen visitors, but every week since he graduated Hogwarts, Severus Snape made the effort to come by.

Today, Narcissa was privately entertaining her sister, Andromeda, in a separate room. Andromeda Tonks had married beneath her station and been disowned by the Blacks. She preferred not to attend primarily-pureblood gatherings, but the Malfoys were pragmatic with respect to blood status and marriages, and Narcissa had maintained her relationship with her precious older sister. Days like this were secretly Severus’ favorite. He was fond of Narcissa, and she of him, but his bond with his cousin, Lucius, was much stronger. 

Lucius handed young Draco, a calm little boy, to Severus as stepped through the floo. Lucius was a proud father and treated handing off his son as the greatest honor he could bestow. Although Severus would smirk or grumble at his cousin, depending on his mood, he loved entertaining the child. He balanced Draco on one hip as he accepted a cup of tea from Lucius with thanks.

“Your favorite godson was asking after you this morning,” the boy’s father said.

Severus deadpanned his response. “Draco is my only godson.”

“And he would remain your favorite if you had a hundred godsons,” Lucius stated with only a mild hint of a threat. “Did you enjoy the party this week? Mother asked Narcissa for assistance with the decoration this time. Narcissa was quite pleased.”

Severus settled himself and the child into a sofa and rubbed the little boy’s back as Draco cuddled closer. The child was positively spoiled for affection. “I don’t enjoy any of your parties, Lucius,” he grunted in an age-old routine.

Lucius smirked as though he knew some great secret. “You were hiding out in your alcove for longer than usual, Severus. You missed my toast. What kept you so occupied?”

“Not this,” Severus groaned as he recognized the interrogation to which he would be subjected. “One of your brother’s guests insisted on talking to me, can you imagine?”

“One of Abby’s, you say? You must have known them from school; wouldn’t you already have been acquainted?” Lucius looked entirely too self-satisfied for this to have been an accidental line of questioning, and so Severus delayed in answering his cousin by entertaining young Draco with a nearby plush toy for a few minutes. If he must be subjected to Lucius’ nosiness, it would be on his own timeline.

“This git named Riddle. Yes, I knew him, but not well. He was a loner.”

“But not so much of a loner, if Abby is his friend.”

Severus scoffed. “Abraxas counts someone as a friend if they’ve exchanged greetings more than once. I bet he even keeps up a correspondence with that mangy cur, Sirius.”

“Oh, no, Riddle—Tom, I believe?—and Abraxas are very close. Tom called on the manor just yesterday, after the party. He must have had something quite pressing to discuss with Abby, visiting so soon after he had just seen him, don’t you think?”

He felt blood rush to his face at Lucius’ implication and wished that his complexion wasn’t so transparently pale. Thankfully, Draco took that moment to put his little hands on Severus’ cheeks and demand a kiss, something that normally embarrassed Severus, but it was a welcome distraction to hide his face in his godson’s hair at that moment. Draco smiled and laughed at getting his grumpy godfather to acquiesce so quickly.

Severus admonished his cousin when he spoke again. “I am not interested in being your gossip, Lucius.”

“Then shut your mouth and listen to me talk, Severus,” Lucius shot back. “The Gaunt heir has been an absolute bore since he settled his title. It’s not for lack of effort on the part of the other houses, either. Merlin, there are too many unmarried Blacks for even that house to ignore the possibility of snatching him up, and the Gaunts haven’t made use of their Wizengamot seat for two generations, and he’s the bloody Heir of Salazar Slytherin himself, and it’s frankly unfair that you are the only person to get anything interesting out of him in years.”

Severus cocked an eyebrow at his cousin’s rant as if to say, _oh, is that all?_ Lucius snorted elegantly—damn him for being capable of such a feat—and continued at a slower pace.

“I don’t trust Tom Riddle.”

“No sane person should,” Severus interrupted.

“Yes, I have always found my dear brother to be insane,” Lucius admonished his cousin in turn, reminding him of who he was insulting, and to his credit Severus grumbled something that could be an apology. “I don’t trust Riddle, but Abby has been close to him for almost a decade, and I do trust Abraxas. If my brother thinks the man is important company to keep, then I think it is prudent to watch him. He has been resolutely dull since he graduated. He refused Malfoy patronage, courtesy of Abby, to pursue a mastery. He’s worse than you at parties and leaves earlier, too. I want to know why he’s talking to you, and I want to be ahead of him if he’s choosing to start being a political presence.”

“I doubt his interest is political,” Severus admitted. He didn’t want to acknowledge the other possibilities, not when he hadn’t yet processed the unnamed feeling between them in the privacy of his own mind.

“Social, then? That surprises me, based on how Abby describes him. He was an awkward Muggle-raised boy who never fit into Slytherin, as far as I’ve heard.” Severus winced at Lucius’ blunt description and turned his attention quickly back to Draco, bouncing the boy a bit on his knee. Draco giggled and played along.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough of a distraction, and Lucius put together the pieces of the puzzle after a couple of minutes of contemplation. “Oh! You’re similar, aren’t you? I forget, cousin, that you didn’t always associate with the extended family.”

Lucius was always like this. He was so much older than his cousin that he tended to dismiss the events of Severus’ early years. In Lucius’ mind, Severus had simply been born as the Prince heir, rather than having to establish the paper trail (with Lucius’ help!) at 17; Severus had never been the awkward, bullied child alienating his friends through his sour attitude. It was a blessing when Lucius, unlike everyone else in his life, never acknowledged the rude names Severus had been called, but it was strangely difficult to handle the fact that Lucius also didn’t see the harms done by those names. 

He never went totally emotionless with Lucius, but moments like these did cause Severus to retreat somewhat into his shell. He did so now, stiffening his shoulders in preparation for whatever his cousin would say next.

“Well, don’t allow his complacency to rub off on you.”

That was not what Severus had expected to hear. “Complacency?” He found himself asking dumbly.

Lucius launched into an explanation that he had clearly given too much thought already. “It’s been, what, three years? Four? Since he claimed his heirship. The current Lord Gaunt is rumored to be raving mad and living in abject poverty; hardly a fit state to take up his seat. Riddle should be filing to depose his—uncle? Grandfather? Both? Salazar only knows, with the Gaunts, they’re worse than the Blacks—don’t repeat that to Cissy.”

“You’re losing the thread, Lucius,” Severus warned his cousin.

“Right,” the blond self-corrected. “Riddle should take control of his Lordship now because his remaining family is unfit to hold the position. Do not let his laziness influence you when Uncle Tiberius begins to decline.”

Severus hadn’t planned to defend Riddle, but he almost had to laugh at Lucius’ absurdity. “What would you have him do, Luce? The Gaunts have no money. Even if he got the Lordship—even if his unhinged uncle didn’t come out of the woodwork to oppose his petition—how would he fulfill the obligations of the peerage? It would be difficult to attend all of those Wizengamot sessions on top of working.”

“He could borrow money from Abraxas,” Lucius dismissed with a wave of his hand. It really said so much that Abraxas’ stipend as a Malfoy second son was enough to comfortably support another Lord’s living expenses. Severus swallowed down the jealousy beaten into him by years of deprivation before he could speak again. 

“He’s a Slytherin by sorting and by blood. Fuck it, Lucius, he’s a man. You think he would live off of your brother’s generosity in perpetuity?” Now Severus did laugh, letting loose the dark and grating bark that was more a threat than a show of amusement.

It was left unspoken that Severus was also a man and a Slytherin by sorting. They would not acknowledge that Severus had accepted the generosity of the Malfoys. Oh, there were reasons to justify it. Severus was a cousin; Severus would have a mastery to support himself in a few more years, and the Prince assets would come in due time. Reasons weren’t a balm to his wounded pride, though, whereas defending Riddle’s obstinacy was nearly cathartic. Severus hadn’t made that choice. Severus had accepted the help. However, Severus would never malign the man who did not.

He and Lucius stared at each other for a long minute the way they always did when Severus made Lucius confront class differences, and as usual, Lucius broke the contest by pretending it had never happened. 

“You’re neglecting your godson, Severus. Put him on your shoulders; he loves that.” Lucius was cool and composed again, playing the doting and demanding father.

“He’s your son,” Severus grumbled as he stood. Draco was getting large to be carried like that, and he knew his neck would be sore tonight, but he wasn’t about to deny the grinning blond boy this indulgence.

“You’re taller, cousin. He likes the height.”

So as Lucius smirked and looked on, Severus hoisted the child up and carried him around the room as Draco yanked his hair like reins, directing him to this or that wall where the boy ran his grubby hands over the ivory wallpaper. He knew it would just be the work of some house elf to clean up the smudges later, but Severus took perverse joy in letting little Draco dirty the walls while Lucius was powerless to object.

It was almost successful revenge, too—until Lucius invited Severus to a small gathering the following week and Severus had no reasonable excuse with which to reject the offer.


	4. Chapter 4

Late on Tuesday afternoon, after Severus had completed his day’s brewing at the apothecary, he rounded on Riddle’s front door. The man’s flat was on Knockturn, but only technically; it faced a street that was one block over from Diagon Alley on the broad side of the building. It was the sort of place Severus would have been living if his cousin hadn’t put him up in a respectable flat on Diagon proper. He tried not to feel guilty about that as he knocked on the door.

Tom Riddle opened the door with a charming, if affected, smile. Severus wasn’t sure that the man knew how to be genuine. He did cut a dashing figure, though, in his soft green sweater and grey wool flannel trousers with a tidy mend along the hem. Riddle apparently did not wear shoes in his own home when receiving guests, and Severus stared, somewhat indecently, at his black sock-clad feet in undisguised surprise. His outfit was not inappropriate, but it was casual in a way that suggested a high level of familiarity between Riddle and Severus. He could see the shape of the other man’s toes.

The discomfort of this realization made him snappish. “It was a bit forward to invite me to your home, wasn’t it, Riddle?” Severus brushed past the younger man holding open his door, determined not to think too hard about their current circumstances.

“You did come, didn’t you?” Tom observed. “And you’ve been to my home, now, Severus; surely you can call me Tom.”

“I’ve heard it’s hardly your preferred name, Riddle,” Severus challenged. This was a rash move; he was not supposed to know about the teenage pseudonym, only, Abraxas was terrible with secrets. He held his breath to see how the other man responded.

“Have it as you like, Wolf bait,” Tom teased, to Severus’ uncomfortable relief. Being called that nickname was better than some of the rumored alternative responses from Tom Riddle.

Severus knew that he looked unfortunately like an overgrown bat, today, in the harsh sunlight that streamed into the only public room in Tom’s economy flat. He had neglected to remove his outer robe, a heavy black wool thing fitting for the winter weather but completely unnecessary indoors, and he had his hair pulled back again, which he thought emphasized the size of his nose. When he remained stiff and standing in the middle of the room, unsure of how to proceed, Tom relented and moved to take his robe. Tom’s fingers ghosted along the collar as he gestured for Severus to slip it over his shoulders.

Severus shuddered at the contact and hoped fervently that Tom hadn’t noticed, though the way he heard the man snap and shake out the heavy robe radiated self-satisfaction. What a mess this afternoon would surely be for Severus. “Tom, then, if you will finally stop using that asinine nickname. It makes me sound pathetic.”

They moved to take their seats at Tom’s modest table, the single sofa feeling too intimate for the occasion. “Oh, Severus, I disagree. Milk and sugar?” Tom handed over both in response to Severus’ nod. “It’s quite enticing: you are bait, something attractive and compelling, for a creature as formidable as a wolf. Shame on anyone who ever made you feel otherwise.”

Severus felt his cheeks burn, the embarrassment of the years-old nickname biting as sharply as it ever had. To have Tom Riddle, the Slytherin mudblood, implying... _this_ —it was a mockery, and Severus covered his disquiet with a long sip of tea. Those damned grey eyes weren’t deceived, though.

“You weren’t ‘so’ with the wolf, then, were you?”

Tom’s impudent question cost Severus his composure, and his tea sloshed wildly as he slammed the delicate cup back onto its saucer. “I—I never—” He didn’t get to finish the stammered thought, though, as Tom continued.

“No, I didn’t think so. If it was going to be one of the four Gryffindor menaces, it would have been Sirius Black, wouldn’t it? He was a much better prospect. Shame the whole family is so naff.” Tom appeared to earnestly consider this assertion. “Regulus, he would have been my choice. That boy is pretty. Orion was too young, of course, and that betrothal with Walburga seemed to settle resentment deep into his bones. He would be difficult to get along with. Sirius was a Gryffindor brute, but if that’s your preferred trade, well. Mmm. Cygnus? Utterly forgettable. Alphard, perhaps? Almost a Slytherin Sirius, but that does lose some of the edge. Yes, it would have to be Regulus.”

“I’m sorry?” Severus still wasn’t processing the sharp turn of their discussion, because to process it would require acknowledging that he _understood_ what Tom was saying, which would as good as out them both.

Tom waved his long-fingered hand casually, as though Severus had contributed anything of merit to the one-sided conversation. “There’s the women, of course, if we must—though I would rather not.”

“Too many damned Blacks,” Severus offered. Perhaps it would be enough?

“Indeed. A whole herd of wasted potential. Narcissa, at least, escaped to a more interesting family.” Tom sipped his tea casually before something sparked in his eyes. “The biscuits! I forgot—would you? Let me just—” 

Severus wondered with some amazement: was Tom Riddle nervous? He certainly moved with more haste to correct his oversight than Severus had ever seen before. His stupid, perfect hair may have even fluttered slightly.

The biscuits were good, though. They were buttery and crisp and packaged in simple white paper; Tom must have ventured into Muggle London to find the bakery. It was a touching gesture.

“So,” Tom continued when he was resettled, “Not with Sirius, either? None of that crew?”

Severus, now able to anticipate the other man’s probing, simply rolled his eyes and nabbed another biscuit. “Salazar, no. Black and Lupin, maybe. But, no, their fascination with tormenting me was not rooted in anyone I ever pursued.”

“Those boys were grotesque,” Tom said with such disgust in his voice that Severus almost reacted. He wasn’t used to anything other than pat dismissals of his Hogwarts bullies due to their house affiliation. “They were the worst of Gryffindor traits personified, and it’s appalling that it took, well—that they weren’t punished sooner.”

“And that only Lupin was expelled,” Severus stated, unable to resist being caught up in any condemnation of those damned Marauders. “Should have been Black as well. Moreso, even.”

“I heard that Sirius didn’t make the auror academy due to the mark on his record, though,” Tom’s eyes, which shone with slightly malicious glee, met Severus’.

“It was his own cousin that turned him down, actually. A Crabbe, related to his mother, deemed him too volatile.” Lucius had shared that news with Severus immediately after it happened—even Lucius, who preferred not to think of Severus’ youth, acknowledged the bitter feud between his cousin and Sirius Black.

“Practically everyone is a cousin to a Black,” Tom dismissed. Neither man would admit that this was not true of Tom. “Do you think he will fight for Lordship when Pollux dies?”

The mess of the Black family inheritance was almost a sport in certain circles. Theoretically, the decision should be clearly determined by birth order and gender, but the Blacks were infamous both for cousin marriages that muddied the waters and for producing many children, ensuring many people with a vested interest and half a claim on the title of Lord Black.

“He would be a dark horse candidate, for sure, but he’s older than Orion. He might try, if only to upset as many of his relatives as possible,” Severus speculated. “He would have to marry, though, and probably within the family. Orion and Walburga have the lead in that regard.”

“Which Black women remain? I think it’s down to just Lucretia. Thank Salazar they managed to marry off Bellatrix first.” Tom said. Severus shuddered at the thought of marrying Bellatrix Black, who he’d met more than enough times through her sister, Narcissa. The eldest sister had a notable mean streak, and though she had taken to Severus after her sister’s marriage to his cousin, she scared him.

“Lucretia would never marry someone she viewed as a blood traitor, even if he were a Black, and even if it made her Lady Black. Anyway, I heard she was being courted by a Prewett.” 

“Hm. I’ll have to owl Abraxas to up my bet on Orion and Walburga,” was all that Tom said.

Severus hadn’t expected that. “You’re actually in the pool?”

“Why not?” Tom shrugged. “Abraxas is running it, so it was join willingly or have him put my name down for something absurd. He threatened me with money on Andromeda, Severus. I will not lend my name to a losing bet.”

That made an unfortunate amount of sense based on what Severus knew about Tom Riddle.

The remainder of their afternoon passed quickly in polite conversation, and Severus soon gave his apologies. “I had really better—well, thank you for the tea, Tom. Perhaps,” Severus would later be unable to explain why he offered the following, “next week, I can return the favor?”

Tom’s answering smile was greedy as he said yes, and his hands lingered as he helped Severus into his cloak.

* * *

It was the strangest thing, this fascination with Severus Snape. The man had hardly been a presence in Tom’s school years, always drifting in and out of the common room with his head bent low over a book, as though if he paid no mind to the world around him, no one in it would pay him mind.

Of course, he was the most mercilessly-bullied boy in school. Those Gryffindors—they had some inane name for their group, like the Musketeers—had singled out the low-class Slytherin boy for seven years of torment because he had dared to be friends with the pretty Muggleborn Gryffindor girl. And Snape had snapped at anyone who tried to help him; his defensiveness had been legendary. Some boys in Slytherin even made a sport of it, with Avery, Rosier, and Mulciber seeing how many times they could jinx the Gryffindors before Severus screamed at them in the common room for interfering. The concept that those boys might enjoy taking down notoriously obnoxious Gryffindors for the enjoyment of it alone never seemed to register with Severus. He was so terribly bad at socializing, but the boy had seemed to subconsciously live for drama, and he put himself squarely at the center of it more times than Tom could recall.

Except for the two times that counted, though. Those weren’t on Severus, and so, obviously, they had come to define him at school.

Everyone, apparently, had seen Severus stripped bare by the lake. In reality, the crowd had been closer to 100 students than 1,000, but as the news spread, firsthand accounts were the gossip gold standard, and so everyone claimed to have one. 

It didn’t matter. Tom had heard enough. To be so exposed—and to have your poverty revealed so glaringly—it was chilling to the Slytherin orphan. It was the sort of grotesque brutishness in which the boys at the orphanage would engage, and the type of behavior he had mistakenly believed, as a young boy, would be restricted to Muggles.

The werewolf incident that followed had upended not just Severus’ world, but Tom’s as well. And oh, Tom had burned for years about the opportunity cut short after Lupin was expelled, but it had passed. Severus had faded from relevance, becoming just a memory of an awkward and ill-kempt boy—until he had walked into Slug & Jiggers and found a striking and self-assured man now bearing the name.

It wasn’t so much that Snape had risen above his station. No, he was working as a clerk, same as Tom. Instead, it was more that Severus had come to fully inhabit his role. He was interesting, now, instead of pitiable. He knew people, had connections, had a career—he was an uppity young half-blood, the most delicious type of striver, and Tom wanted him in his own orbit.

Well, and he wanted him. Those hands, that voice... attached to such an alluring man, fascinating because of his physical peculiarities... Tom’s pulse raced at recalling their proximity during the Malfoy party. Severus had been stoic, but _something_ had passed between them at the end. He wanted to find out what that was.

Their first day together had been awkward. Severus was still not a sociable person. Tom would have to prepare accordingly for the second, but there was a second, and there would be a third, and he would pursue the man until he had consumed him entirely.


	5. Chapter 5

Tom arrived at Malfoy Manor early Saturday afternoon. He could have showed up earlier—he had been invited to share lunch—but these small parties with the Lestranges were always uncomfortable. He had never really won over the older purebloods. Tom knew he could try harder. He was an heir, even if he was a half-blood, and he could charm almost anyone. It just hadn’t seemed worth the effort. Winning the begrudging respect of his Hogwarts peers had taken years of consistent work, and he’d long since resigned himself making connections within the younger generation.

Pushing these thoughts out of his mind, he allowed a house-elf to show him to one of the charmed gardens, where Narcissa had arranged a very out-of-season gathering. The Malfoys most enjoyed flaunting their ancestral weather enchantments during the depths of winter. Abraxas spotted him as soon as he entered the lush, green space and rushed to greet his friend.

“Tom! Good to see you, old chap. I thought you might bail,” the blond joked.

“I’m here, good fellow, let’s get it over with.”

A third voice, laced in disbelief, broke into their conversation.

“You cannot be serious. You’re here, too?”

Tom’s head snapped to the unexpected and _very_ welcome sound. Severus Snape stood slightly apart from the knot of Lestranges, clearly having stepped away from their conversation to observe Tom’s arrival. The tall, brooding man wore his customary black, but today’s outfit was a loose confection of silks and gauzy wools for the casual gathering. His hair was down and brushed over one shoulder, away from the curious blond boy he held on the opposite hip. Severus looked so domestic, comfortably holding his godson like that, and the sight made Tom’s insides twist in pleasant discomfort. 

He didn’t know how to process that reaction, so he spoke instead of letting his thoughts dwell on it. “Severus! What a surprise.”

Abraxas, seeing the opening, jumped in with typical Malfoy panache. “Cousin, I’ve heard you two are recently acquainted. Come, say hello to my closest friend. He’s just like you—I had to threaten him to show up today. What did Lucius do to get you here?”

The two darker-haired men turned to Abraxas with similar expressions of displeasure, and unfortunately for them, the younger Malfoy just laughed. “Salazar, do you both practice that? Prove me wrong, cousin. Tell me you’re here for the company.”

Severus, bouncing his young charge slightly, grumbled. “I helped Draco ruin the walls in Lucius’ parlor.”

“Ah!” Abraxas’ eyes lit up. “That explains why Cissy brought the designer through this week. As much as I appreciate the pettiness, I did like that ivory wallpaper. Couldn’t you have chosen a different room? His office has this awful dark paneling—”

Severus sneered down at his cousin in a very clear dismissal of the topic. The effect was mildly less successful than intended, owing to Draco’s very large grin. The boy was terribly happy to cling to his godfather.

Tom had no idea how to handle this situation. Severus was like a beacon, calling to him, but they’d never talked around another person. Abraxas was hardly going to leave them alone, that much was clear. Further, Tom was acutely aware that he was not a part of this family. It never mattered when he and Abraxas were on their own, but everyone else here was related by blood or marriage. 

He fought down the biting urge to do something rash. Fleeing would be cowardly. He had just arrived. Tom could insult someone to regain his footing, but his choices were limited, and he didn’t feel like offending either Severus or Abraxas right now. He could insult the child… but, no, Severus seemed to like the boy, so that would be too risky. The panic started to rise, and he reached for the handle of his wand to calm himself.

Abraxas was saying something, doubtless oversharing, but Tom couldn’t process it. Blood was thrumming in his ears and he could not hear. His breaths were becoming shallow. He could not, could not, could not—

A warm, strong hand took hold of his bicep and directed him to a more private spot in the garden, near a hedge. Someone’s deep, black eyes filled his vision, and he felt the gentle press of Legilimency in his mind—not a proper intrusion, just a presence making itself known to pull him out of his own dark thoughts. He refocused his vision and looked into Severus’ face.

“I sent Abraxas away with his nephew. He’ll go pick a fight with Bellatrix. You have at least an hour alone, if you want it.”

True to his word, Severus was no longer holding the blond Malfoy child. 

“I—you—“ Tom stuttered. With the anxiety dissipating, his mind took a moment to right itself. What he found in its place was cold fury masking the embarrassment that Severus had known to intercede. He stepped back from the other man quickly.

“You presume too much, Snape.” Distance was good. Tom pursued; he did not need help from anyone. 

Severus rolled his eyes and Tom had never been so neatly dissected by a single gesture in his entire life. “Find a different outlet for that anger, because I’ll walk away if you try to use me. Tell me how Abraxas got you here. You obviously hate it.”

Tom evaluated his companion and judged that the threat was real, so he answered the question. “He threatened to write to my father.”

Severus didn’t even blink. “You’re an orphan.”

“I was raised in an orphanage.” Tom did not elaborate.

“However,” Severus pieced together the puzzle, “your father is still alive. He doesn’t know about you?”

“Hence the threat,” Tom confirmed.

Severus looked considerate. “Hmm. He’s fully a Muggle?”

“As far as I can tell, quite. He’s landed gentry.” It wasn’t so embarrassing to admit this to someone like Severus, who had his own Muggle father. His questions came from experience. His next comment was a surprise, though. 

“You should do it.”

“Excuse me?” Tom drawled as though he was unaffected, even as his heart rate jumped rapidly.

“What’s the risk? He has money. If he feels guilty, you might get access to some of that. If he doesn’t, you end up in the same place as you are now.” Severus laid out his argument calmly, and his casual tone kept Tom just grounded enough to consider the option.

“If I talk about this with you today,” Tom proposed to his companion, “you will tell me about being Wolf bait at our next tea.”

Severus coughed in shock, but regained his composure quickly. Tom admired that quality in a man. “I wasn’t initiating a negotiation, Tom.”

Oh, his name sounded so good when Severus’ baritone voice rolled over it. “You didn’t, but I did. So, how about it: do you want to know about my sordid family history enough to share your own messiness with me?”

“Fuck it,” Severus swore like a Muggle and it was comfortingly familiar. “Tell me about your Da.”

“I’m named after him. I’m a Junior, technically, though I’ll kill you if you ever bring it up,” Tom opened.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Good. My mother was a Gaunt; that’s a separate issue. When I went looking for my parents, I found her first. I have one surviving relative on that side: the uncle keeping me in the position of Gaunt Heir.” Tom paused here before continuing. It was difficult to recall that wretched man, dirty and stinking and more mad than a Black, living in a shack in the shadow of Riddle manor. Tom wasn’t comfortable with being a half-blood, but when he thought about his wizarding relatives, he wasn’t sure of which side of his bloodline to be more ashamed. “I met him, once. Or, rather, I called upon him once. He wasn’t incredibly useful, and that is a vast understatement, but he said I looked like the man who lived up the hill: Tom Riddle.”

“That must have been a shock,” Severus responded for want of something to fill the space. Tom appreciated this gesture; he didn’t like to think of himself as a monologuer. It was a trait he associated with instability.

“I thought about killing my father that day,” Tom admitted to the only person he knew who might understand.

Severus’ response was even and nonjudgmental. “Why didn’t you kill him?”

“I have never killed someone.” Tom’s statement wasn’t precisely an answer, but its meaning hung heavily between them. If he had killed someone else prior to that first brush with Riddle Sr., his father would now be dead. He wasn’t going to start with his father. He knew he might never do it, now—he wasn’t angry, almost a decade later, the way that he had been at 16. He had shed some of his impulsivity. He wasn’t willing, at this point, to premeditate the murder of his father.

“I could have killed my father.” Severus’ frankness was unexpected and it was Tom’s turn to prompt the other man.

“But you didn’t.”

“The war did it first. They shipped his body home, did you know that? Of all the soldiers to get that privilege. I wish he had stayed in a ditch on the continent.”

“If I reach out to my father, I might have to kill him some day.”

Severus could have objected to this statement. He could have pretended not to understand why Tom would need to feel this way. He could have laughed at it, like it was some absurd joke. He didn’t do any of those. Instead, he agreed.

“You might.”

The acceptance contained in those two words forced an even deeper admission to come tumbling from Tom’s mouth. “I don’t want to have to.”

“No. It’s not an enviable position.” Severus gave Tom the weight of his full attention as he next spoke, no longer pretending to look at the surrounding garden. “Would you let fear of a Muggle man stop you from something, though? He owes you. Write a bloody letter; it’s hardly a challenge. Make it his burden to bear.”

“The letter was never the challenge,” Tom spat, because it was the only thing to say that didn’t directly acknowledge the vulnerabilities they had been skirting. He breathed in and out slowly, his hand returning firmly to his wand as he let go of the discomfort of this topic. “Your story had better match this, Severus,” he was able to tease lightly. “I would hate to have to be displeased with you.”

Severus snorted, signalling that he caught the topic change. “I know what your displeasure entails, Riddle.” The distance was good. Severus wasn’t presuming intimacy that didn’t exist, Tom told himself. “Merlin knows why Abraxas sticks around a temperamental git like you.”

“Abraxas is worse than me. He just has a weaker bite.”

“On that point, we can agree.”

“I’d still like to upset dear Abraxas further, today. Any suggestions?” Tom prompted, eager to see whether Severus was interesting enough to agitate his cousin in mixed company.

The long-haired man thought for a minute. “How do you feel about Bellatrix Lestrange?”

“She’s never tolerated me, I must admit.” Tom conceded with a faint blush. He hated to admit any amount of social incompetence, no matter how obvious.

“Bella adores me.”

“You’re lying.” Tom’s eyes widened. 

“It’s as much a surprise to me as to you, but I am not lying,” Severus reassured his companion.

The seed of an idea was planted in their minds. Tom began: “She hates Abraxas.”

“She might not like you now, but she hardly knows you,” Severus continued.

“Bellatrix likes you enough to value your opinion.”

“Let us go persuade cousin Bella that you’re worth knowing.”

Tom linked his arm with Severus, and though the other man started at the contact, he allowed it to remain. “Yes. Yes, Severus, I think it’s time I formally meet Madame Lestrange.”

Bellatrix Lestrange crowed with joy at her cousin-by-marriage. She looked over Tom with new eyes, as though they had never met before, and he realized that in her mind, perhaps they never had. To some purebloods, even a half-blood heir wasn’t a person until they made the right connections.

Still, she seemed pleased with him now, going so far as to ask Severus how long he’d been seeing such a pretty young man. That made both of them blush.

At some point, Severus took up Draco again, and Tom actually entertained the youngest Malfoy to have an excuse to lean closer to his godfather. Abraxas rolled his eyes and mouthed something insulting, but he seemed to be the only one who noticed. The afternoon was just so… nice. All of these purebloods were treating Tom like a normal part of their social circle.

It was what he’d wanted for as long as he’d known he was a wizard, so why did it make his skin itch?


	6. Chapter 6

“I cannot believe that we ran into each other again,” Severus said in lieu of offering a proper greeting.

Tom laughed and handed the other man his overcoat. It was of Muggle design, and not a transfigured robe, either. Tom had nicked it from a London restaurant’s coat stand back in his school years. He admired the soft hand of the felted wool, which must have been blended with cashmere. Though he hadn’t stolen much in his late teens, he coveted this at first sight. He’d finally grown the build to fill it out now that he was in his twenties. If Severus’ appraising glance was any indication, other people noticed.

“Perhaps we should compare our calendars, Severus. I would hate to give you a shock again.” Tom pulled a white paperboard box from under his arm and handed it to his host. “My thanks for your invitation. You enjoyed the biscuits last week.”

Severus’ face went faintly pink as he took the package. “This was unnecessary.”

“Yes, you’re quite welcome,” Tom said with an eye-roll.

The host cleared his throat. “Well.” Salazar, Severus could be awkward. “Sit?” Snape headed through a doorway to their left, which opened onto a modestly-appointed sitting room that could have held all of the public space in Tom’s flat. Tom couldn’t help but notice the size of Severus’ place. It wasn’t large, exactly, but it was more than Severus should have been able to afford as a shop clerk. His furniture was likewise unassuming but too solidly-built to have come from a secondhand store. None of the cushions were flat. Fuck, he had both chairs and a couch. He must have taken money from his cousin.

Tom sat in one of the chairs so that he could keep some distance between them. He allowed Severus to prepare his tea and took the cup gratefully, happy to have something to do with his hands.

“So,” Tom drew out the word, “you make no pretense at your privation, Severus?”

The other man didn’t even pretend not to be offended. He glared at Tom.

“It’s nothing you weren’t offered by Abraxas.”

Tom felt that in his gut. “At least I did not accept the charity,” he batted back spitefully.

“But which choice is the one of greater pretension?” Severus’ tone was acid.

Tom thought for a minute before answering. “Definitely yours.” He nodded to himself. “It wasn’t our money to take.”

Severus sighed and conceded. “Definitely mine. You know,” he began conversationally, now that they passed their disagreement, “I had to explain that to Lucius last week. He thinks you’re lazy for not taking Malfoy money and petitioning for your Wizengamot seat.”

That made Tom laugh sharply, his shoulders shaking and head thrown back in incredulity. “Only a Malfoy would think that it was lazier to work for a living than to join the peerage.”

Severus managed to crack a sarcastic smile at that comment. “He was worried I might be following your example.”

“We hardly know each other! Lucius Malfoy is an idiot if he thinks that.”

“That’s my cousin you’re insulting,” Severus said. He was grimacing, but Tom thought his face might just rest in that expression. Seriousness suited his features. He didn’t seem particularly affected otherwise.

“Save your indignation for when I say something with which you disagree. I’m not wasting my effort to fight this out.” Tom rotated his teacup in place rather than drink from it. “You owe me your sordid history, anyway. That sounds like a much more interesting topic than whatever happens in Lucius’ mind.”

Now Severus’ grimace seemed intentional. “I suppose it’s too much to hope you would forget about that entirely?”

Tom’s smile was predatory. “Not a chance, Wolf bait.”

“I hate that name. I know what you think about it; I still hate it.” His expression was almost forlorn, and Tom was intrigued.

“Tell me why,” he commanded.

“Did you know that the remaining Marauders never used it?” Tom shook his head silently. “They still hounded me after Lupin was expelled. Black took it very personally, you see, that risking a poor, Slytherin half-blood’s life would get him and his friend in trouble. He set me up to die. He would have been glad to turn Lupin into a murderer, if it meant I was dead.”

“I can’t understand that,” Tom interjected. 

“I don’t think he understood it, to be honest,” Severus stated. “In a juvenile way, I could have seen Potter wanting me dead—he could have envisioned a dramatic romantic rivalry, though that never—but Black? I can’t see any basis for his hatred other than projection and prejudice.”

“You certainly cursed him back.”

“I was one person against four,” Severus admitted, and he looked chagrined to have to do so. “Merlin, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

“Well, don’t stop now,” Tom smirked. “You’re getting interesting.”

Severus shot him another glare, but it lacked real venom this time. “You are an absolute brat, Tom Riddle.”

“I’ve perfected that through years of effort.”

“Do stop. Fuck, what was I saying?” Tom watched as Severus rubbed his temples, gathering his thoughts. His stained fingers moved with a finesse that Tom had never seen in another man. “That bloody nickname. The whole school used it after I was nearly killed. At least, when it was just the Marauders, other people tried to ignore me. No one else wanted to commit to their level of torment. It was too cruel to stomach. But using a damned nickname like that—everyone felt comfortable calling me that wretched thing.”

Tom hadn’t thought about it that way and said as much before he could stop himself.

Severus snorted inelegantly. “You wouldn’t have. I don’t envy your treatment in Slytherin, but the school at large seemed to fawn over you. You were far too attractive and intelligent for an insulting nickname to ever stick.”

“You think I’m attractive, Severus?” Tom preened at the compliment and watched Severus blush.

“I used the past tense,” the other man grumbled.

“Don’t play with me; we both know I have only gotten prettier.”

“Sod off, Riddle. Do you want the rest of this conversation?”

Tom judged that the threat was real and conceded with a final charming smile. “I will not forget this, but please, go on.”

After an indulgent pause, Severus continued speaking. “You know, Dumbledore tried to persuade the headmaster to keep the whole incident quiet. Apparently, Dippet hadn’t known that Lupin was a werewolf. Dumbledore covered it up to keep him enrolled after he was bitten, and he tried to argue that Dippet and Hogwarts would look bad for having a werewolf in the student body.”

“That’s hilarious!” Tom surprised even himself with his burst of manic laughter. “Really backfired on the old goat, didn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Severus agreed with a malicious smirk. No Slytherin liked Albus Dumbledore. “Who could have anticipated that Dippet still had so much fire in him? Dismissing his deputy head to save his own reputation was a cunning move.”

Tom couldn’t help but ask: “Were you there when it happened?”

Severus shook his head sadly. “No, Dippet must have made the decision after us students were dismissed. But, oh, you would have loved to see the old man’s face when the headmaster decided Lupin and Black would have to be punished. He looked as though he might use an Unforgivable on me. He was positively murderous.”

“He always was too self-righteous to be believable.”

“Quite.”

Both men allowed the conversation to lapse for a few minutes as they individually contemplated their erstwhile transfiguration professor. Even his defeat of Grindelwald hadn’t been enough for families to trust him with their children’s education again. 

“There is one thing I never understood,” Severus said after some time.

“What’s that?”

“What actually happened to the student who was petrified that year. Lupin was obviously a scapegoat, since they were going to expel him anyway. But that was not the work of a werewolf, and Lupin wouldn’t have known any spell that could do that.” Severus was contemplatively staring into the distance and didn’t notice the expression of surprise and embarrassment that passed over Tom’s face.

He schooled his features into neutrality before responding. “I do know the answer to that.”

Severus seemed earnestly interested. “Oh? Are you willing to share?”

Was he? This was hardly the sort of fundamentally-insignificant gossip that Severus had shared so far today. Tom probably wouldn’t face real consequences for what he had done, given that nothing irreparable had happened, but it was still a risk.

“I’ll share in exchange for a wand oath,” he finally decided. 

“You’re serious,” Severus deadpanned.

“Deadly,” Tom agreed amiably.

Severus grumbled but swore the oath. “Fair’s fair, Riddle. What’s your big secret?”

“I found the Chamber of Secrets in my fifth year. Slytherin kept a basilisk as a familiar.”

Severus shouted his incredulous response. “You unleashed a fucking basilisk on Hogwarts! Merlin, Tom.”

“I would have gotten less sloppy if someone hadn’t fallen for a setup from the likes of Sirius Black. Really, you fought with them for years, surely you put together the pattern of Lupin’s behavior around the full moon.” Tom was embarrassed and he channeled that into insulting Severus.

“Lupin wasn’t a werewolf until third year, you arse,” Severus defended himself. “And you were an unbelievably arrogant child if you thought you could control a fucking basilisk.”

“It’s in my blood, git,” Tom shot back.

Severus laughed, and though it was grating and inelegant, the man’s clear amusement softened Tom slightly. “I thought my parental issues were bad, but Salazar—and I invoke him intentionally—yours may be a bigger wreck than mine.”

Tom huffed. “I’m an orphan; I don’t have parental issues.”

“I have never heard a more obvious lie in my life,” Severus insisted. “You thought you could control a class five magical beast because your mum’s blood lets you speak to snakes, and your da is alive. Have you written to him yet?”

Tom chose not to dignify that question with a response.

“I never figured you for a coward, Riddle,” Severus drawled. 

Tom’s wand was in his hand in an instant. “Test me one more time, Snape,” he warned his host. “You act too familiar with me.”

Severus did not draw his wand, but he placed his teacup down firmly and Tom could tell that the man would have his wand ready in an instant if he thought Tom would actually try to curse him. He wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled that Severus showed deference to Tom’s temper or insulted that he was not yet afraid enough to want his wand in his grasp. Instead of puzzling through that conflict, Tom flicked his wrist and sent a decorative pillow sailing into Severus’ head.

“The next thing I throw will hurt more.”

Severus rebuffed the pillow and let it fall to the rug. “Oh, _please_ , Riddle,” he said, and Tom tried not to think about how throwing a pillow was his most aggressive use of magic in years. He would never have anticipated sharing tea with the man responsible for prematurely ending his terrorization of Hogwarts and doing nothing more harmful to him than tossing a pillow in his face. The pillow didn’t even have buttons on it.

Severus appeared to be considering something before he next spoke. “If it helps… I don’t know what I would say to my mum.”

“I could write a letter if I wanted to do so. Anyway, don’t you talk to your mother?” Tom prodded to put Severus on the back foot. “She’s a witch. She raised you.” He couldn’t imagine not keeping that connection alive, even though both their mothers had fled the wizarding world and taken up with Muggle men. Spurning magical heritage was a foreign idea.

“We see each other a few times a year.” The black-haired man shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he talked, clearly regretting that he had exposed himself to this discussion. “It’s been different since Da died. Look, Tom—make your own decision. I don’t care. But consider it, all the same. Your da’s money would buy you your own ammunition, and you could leave mine alone.” With that, Severus sent the small pillow flying into Tom.

He caught it quickly, growling in mock affront. “I could incinerate this.”

Severus dismissed the threat. “Narcissa would insist on buying me another matched set, so if you do, burn its counterpart as well.”

“You like their charity, Severus,” Tom accused his friend.

“I like sleeping on a comfortable bed at night.”

Tom smiled; Severus made this too easy. “Oh, I haven’t had one of those since Hogwarts. Perhaps you’d be willing to share yours?”

There it was—the rush of blood that stained Severus’ high cheekbones red, the precious disbelief in his dark eyes, and best yet, the hint of a smile reversing his downturned lips. Tom liked the sight of Severus reacting to him.

“Tom, I—”

He cut off Severus before the awkward rejection could be completed. “Save your denials, Severus. I have work tomorrow morning.”

Though Tom planned to take his leave, he was surprised that Severus stopped his withdrawal with a hand on his arm—the contact was faint but unmistakably gentle. “Let’s get dinner. I’d be going out anyway.”

Tom couldn’t say no to that offer.

* * *

Severus couldn’t say when he had come to expect Tom’s weekly presence, but by mid-January, Tuesday tea and dinner was a standing commitment. 

It wasn’t as though Tom had become his close confidant. They didn’t exchange gifts over the holidays, and Severus chose not to mention anything about his birthday as it passed. When Severus’ mum tried to talk to him about Da—again—on Christmas Eve, Severus vented his frustration to Lucius. He wasn’t ready to share that with Tom. When Severus and Narcissa ran across Lily Evans on Boxing Day, he let Narcissa murmur a cutting dismissal of the redhead’s fashion sense into his ear to carry him through the awkwardness. 

Severus kept his truly personal issues out of his tentative new relationship with Tom, but he was drawn to the other man’s transparent messiness. Outside of Hogwarts, the two men were effectively the same age. They shared a birth year. However, Tom’s apprehension regarding his father awoke the same protective instinct that used to send Severus between his mum and da when they would fight. He wanted to comfort his friend.

They were just friends, though he allowed himself to enjoy Tom’s brazen flirtations. After a few weeks of Tom not acting on his comments, it seemed like they may have settled into a stable, if unusual, dynamic. He figured that he might as well appreciate the attention from someone as pretty as Tom Riddle while it was offered. 

Perhaps it was a mistake to lower his guard around Riddle. He tried not to dwell on that thought.

The other man was a surprisingly good companion. Unlike Lucius, he didn’t blink at going to a Muggle chippy for dinner or seem bothered by Severus’ crass language and modest lifestyle. Well—if Tom even found it modest. Severus hadn’t realized how much of a difference Lucius’ charity made in his life until he compared himself and Tom. Best not to dwell on that, either.

It was a difficult relationship to manage, and as Severus’ fondness for Tom continued to grow, he knew he couldn’t maintain his distance from the other man for long.


	7. Chapter 7

Tom had no idea how to write to his father, no matter what he had blustered to Severus. The idea of the letter taunted him every evening when he came home from work and ignored his writing desk, letting his eyes skip past the accusingly-blank parchment and capped inkwell that Severus had arranged during his last visit.

It was an unfair task. How did one write to a father they had never known? “Hello, dad, have you missed me? I missed you.” No. “Father, why did you abandon my mother to die?” That would be unsuccessful. Tom’s hurts were so near to the surface that he could scarcely imagine not listing every accusation in this letter that might be his only chance to communicate with the absent man, but he also wanted to meet him, to just once interact with the person who had given him half of himself. Communicating that in a letter required a gentler hand than Tom knew how to provide. He had grown out of most of the rage of his adolescence, but this pain was too sharp for the still-recent emotional maturity of his adulthood to handle. He could be angry or he could be desperate, and neither option was acceptable, so he hated himself and avoided the obligation instead.

What was a life without a father? He’d gone over two decades without one. Perhaps it wasn’t that important to connect with his own. He’d passed his childhood milestones long ago. His father would never sit him on his knee and read stories or tuck him into bed at night. Tom was not a child. Fathers and sons were an awkward and ill-defined concept in adulthood, as far as Tom could see. Severus’ father had been the worst kind of Muggle and his friend despised the man even in death. Abraxas’ father, Lord Malfoy, was at least a wizard of high standing, but the man seemed content to mostly ignore his second son in favor of his heir and grandson. 

And why did it have to be a father, not a mother? Tom had always known that his mother was dead. He had never bothered to dream about the what-ifs of meeting her, not like he had with his father. Still, despite the disparate roles each parent had played in his long-held fantasies, a mother would have been easier. Mothers were supposed to show love for their children no matter the hurdles. Abraxas’ mother adored her youngest, and his friend held her in the highest esteem. Tom wished, for a day, that he was writing to a mother.

All it took to end that wish was another dinner with Severus, and another reminder that sometimes mothers were no less flawed than fathers.

Severus prodded him anew about his correspondence. “Have you written to your father yet?”

Tom averted his eyes and pretended to be unaffected. “It’s slipped my mind. I’ve had other priorities.”

“Certainly,” Severus was not fooled but allowed Tom to save face. “It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to handle; let’s tie up that task before I leave for the night.”

Tom broke and made eye contact with Severus, letting just a hint of his anxiety show in his pained expression. He would not ask for help, and he felt dangerously close to exposing vulnerability, and he told himself that if it had been almost anyone other than Severus in his flat right now, that person would be walking off a curse for months. It was Severus, though, and Tom always thawed in the face of the other man’s delicate care. He knew how to offer, knew not to make Tom beg, knew how to deploy gentleness as a tool to smooth over difficult conversations. It hurt Tom too much to think about why his friend had become so practiced at placating those he cared for, but he was grateful for the skill.

“You should write; a father should get to know his son’s handwriting,” Severus asserted as though he had any authority in these matters, and Tom smiled despite himself. “I might keep it short and simply explain that you believe him to be your father, perhaps name your mum as proof, and you are now a young man and are hoping to connect with him. He’s a Muggle, so no need to set out the details of your life. He probably couldn’t understand them.”

Severus’ calm, low voice grounded Tom’s sparking nerves and made the task seem almost doable. Instead of accusations about abandonment or plaintive words about missed experiences, Tom could see polite sentences taking shape in his head. Before he lost faith, he began to write.

“I should hint at the magic,” he stated without upwards inflection.

“If you do so, keep it vague. What if he never knew your mum was magical?” Severus answered the implicit question.

“Do I sign my name with ‘Junior?’” This was explicitly a question, as Tom hadn’t dared come to terms with the intimacy of his shared name.

“Best avoid it, I think,” Severus settled, one long-fingered hand carding through his own hair as he thought. Tom loved watching him fidget with his long hair, which he could never keep tied back neatly outside of the apothecary. That should be Tom’s reward for this unbearably uncomfortable task, getting to finally feel Severus’ silky hair in his own hands. 

He knew better than to ask, though.

Once the letter was complete and the ink dry, Tom folded it quickly and hid it within the Royal Mail envelope, which, along with a single postage stamp, he had had to procure especially for this endeavor. He’d debated using an owl for expediency before realizing that his father was unlikely to receive the gesture well, if he could even figure out how to handle mail through an owl. Yes, painfully Muggle was best for now.

Severus took the addressed and sealed envelope from Tom and secreted it away in his cloak before Tom could protest. “I’ll drop this off on my way out,” he said. The two men looked at each other for a long time.

“It’s—” Tom tried to say something to acknowledge their shared confidence, but startled into silence when Severus’ hand came to rest on his shoulder. He leaned into the warm weight of it and they continued to hold their positions without speaking. The touch, even through layers of clothing, communicated everything that needed to be said. When Tom began to feel self-conscious, he regretfully pulled away. Severus allowed his hand to drop softly, not commenting or reacting to the moment that had passed. And oh, how that made Tom feel the heat of embarrassment on his face, to have sought comfort so plainly! He wanted to rip into Severus, to call him some stupid name, to demean the other man for having been confident and self-assured when Tom was nearly in pieces over six vapid sentences of text. He couldn’t bear this closeness. 

But Tom didn’t act. He stared over his friend’s shoulder, swallowing his own shame and anger, and Severus just gave him a wry smile and slipped out.

* * *

A week passed since the letter was mailed, then two, then a full month had gone by. Tom Riddle Sr. was not going to write back.

Tom, obviously, affected an air of indifference. He brought Severus to lunch at the chippy near his rented postal box each week, pretended to remember to check his mail just as they were passing by, and blanked his expression at the perpetually empty box. This was fine. When Abraxas called out Tom for being unusually morose, Tom scoffed and accused his friend of being especially bored. Didn’t the second Malfoy have a nephew to entertain, or something? Working adults like Tom just were solemn, layabout rich boys would never understand. He never thought he was fooling his friends, but he did expect them to stick to Slytherin norms and ride out this period stoically. 

Perhaps that assumption was what had blinded him to the blips in his friends’ behavior. He dismissed Severus’ interest in what Abraxas had to say about Riddle Sr. He laughed when Abraxas asked how Severus had handled mailing the letter. It was preposterous, really, that the cousins would conspire together. Their mutual acquaintance with Tom wasn’t reason enough to even be civil with each other.

He could never imagine that the two men would care enough about him to put aside their differences for one joint effort. He didn’t anticipate that Severus would call on Abraxas when week three rolled by without a reply. Tom had no idea that Abraxas would receive his cousin with a furrowed brow and knowing look, not a single hard-edged comment exchanged between them. He simply hadn’t the capacity to understand that Severus would break Tom’s confidence to share the context, and Abraxas would turn his innate entitlement toward writing a letter admonishing Riddle Sr. for ignoring his son, and a Malfoy would brave the Muggle world to see a second letter mailed off to a nowhere town where the fulfillment of Tom’s deepest dreams was held hostage by a profoundly uncertain man.

Tom didn’t imagine that scenario, but his imagination did not govern the actions of others, and so the short letter and invitation that awaited him in his post box during the fifth week was a harsh awakening.

“Abraxas!” Tom thundered through his friend’s floo, heedless of social propriety. Abraxas was mostly dressed, nothing that unusual for the two friends, though he took a moment to adopt his standard haughty expression after the surprise arrival. 

“Yes, old chap?”

“Don’t you dare play games with me, Abraxas! Why do I have a letter from Tom Riddle Sr. with your name in it? What does this mean that he heard from you?” Tom was seething mad, his face an unflattering red shade as he fought for control of himself.

Abraxas smirked. “Oh, that? I had been expecting thanks from you eventually. Does the shop still have that delightful quill set? I think it would be appropriate for your gesture of gratitude.”

“I am invited for tea! In a week! With my—my—” Tom couldn’t push the words past his teeth, his jaw was clenched too tightly. 

“With your dear father, Tom?” Abraxas’ insufferable grin was perfect, his teeth too white and straight, and his dressing gown too effortlessly elegant, tied loosely around his narrow hips. He was too fucking proud of himself. Tom hadn’t asked for help. Severus would have had to ask, and that was unbearable, because then Severus and Abraxas worked _together_ on this, his best friend and his—his—whatever Severus was, helping pitiful little Tom—

Tom roared and launched himself at Abraxas. He landed on the other man with his full weight, the sharp heel of his shined oxfords catching the blond’s shin and sending him to the floor. Tom rolled into the descent and drew back his fist, throwing a solid punch into Malfoy’s jaw with a sickening crack before the blond could process what was happening.

But then Abraxas did catch on, and he heaved his weight sideways, rolling Tom underneath him and jabbing at the sensitive flesh of his armpit, pinching and twisting until the dark-haired man gasped in pain. Tom thrust his knee upward into Abraxas’ side and Abraxas groaned on impact. The blond grabbed Tom’s leg and attempted to pin him, but Tom twisted painfully out of his grasp and kicked again, landing hits he couldn’t see. Abraxas bit Tom’s hand and made him cry out, so Tom thrust a thumb into his eye until he let go.

They panted for a second before continuing to fight, scrapping on the ground like two low-class urchins, trading punches and kicks and more vicious and painful blows until they were sweaty and exhausted. When they collapsed onto the ground, side by side, Abraxas had multiple rapidly-swelling bruises on his face, and Tom’s suit was ripped and he had a bite mark on his hand. They were a mess.

“You’re welcome,” Abraxas gasped.

“You really talked to Severus for this?” The disbelief was clear even in Tom’s breathless voice.

“For you, arsehole. Of course I talked to Severus for you.” Abraxas let another minute of silence pass before speaking again. “Fighting like a Muggle, Tom? It’s been—”

“Six years,” Tom interrupted. “Not since the Avery thing. I didn’t know you could still do it.”

Abraxas laughed baldly. “I’m not as dumb and prejudiced as you always seem to think, old chap.”

“Certainly not, good fellow, if you braved the Muggle post,” Tom laughed in response. “Severus barely passes for Muggle with that hair of his, and he goes back regularly. I shudder to think what you looked like.”

“I followed the example of my favorite professor, Dumbledore, of course,” he jested back. “Transfigured a, mm, magenta suit? And an embroidered lime waistcoat. I dare say I was a right Victorian dandy.”

“I would have cursed you for even suggesting that, but Severus would have actually murdered you, cousins or not.”

“He’s hardly one to speak!” Abraxas insisted vehemently. “The amount of frills that man wears, really. Preferring black does not absolve him of being a fop. I suppose one of you needs to care about dress.”

“I care about my clothing,” Tom pouted. He was already mourning the ruin of his nice houndstooth suit.

Abraxas tsked and corrected him. “No, you care that others think of you as well-dressed. You have no flair for it, though. Severus has an eye for fashion, even if that eye sees in greyscale and favors last century’s frock coats.”

Tom let his mind drift to Severus’ severe outfits, his ruffled cravats and tailored robes that emphasized his height and slimness. He was delicious in his own way. “Severus does look ravishing in black,” he eventually agreed, distracted by thoughts of untying that cravat.

Abraxas groaned at Tom’s remark. “Gross, that is my awkward cousin you’re mentally undressing.”

“Sod off,” Tom grunted as he righted himself. He offered Abraxas a hand to get up, and the blond accepted it while grumbling. 

“Forgiven?”

“Warn me, next time,” Tom acknowledged. “I don’t like surprises.”

“If your stupid father hadn’t mentioned me, you would never have known!” Both men grimaced when they remembered the context of their fight. “Do you want any company next week? Myself, or Severus, or both? Either of us would be happy to sneer at some Muggles for you.”

“No, I—”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Abraxas interrupted. Tom glared. “Would you want to sit through a conversation between me and my father?” Tom continued to glare, but shook his head. “Precisely. And Severus has a terrible history with fathers. Lucius, now—”

Tom pulled a face. “Lucius is disgustingly sentimental.”

Abraxas laughed. “Quite right, old chap. Quite right.” And so, comfortable in their mutual disdain for another person, they restored balance to their friendship.

If only twenty-plus years of ignoring your child could be resolved so simply.


	8. Chapter 8

Tom approached Riddle manor slowly. He’d been here before, seen the grand old house rising from the hill, walked past the long drive that led to the intricately-carved front door. He had dreamed of striding up that hill, entering that door, and finding his family. But those days had been just that: dreams, and in his daydreams, he never faced the possibility of rejection. Today would be real. He would enter the house of his father, but he would not be welcomed as the wanted, prodigal son returning home. It would be awkward. It would be work to build a relationship, emotional work, and if Tom were even aware enough of his own emotions to have recognized that, he wouldn’t have been standing on the lawn of his father’s ancestral home that day.

However, he had an invitation to tea, which he unconsciously clutched tighter in his left hand. If nothing else, it was proof that he belonged here, at least for one day. Tom took a deep, shaky breath, and walked up the hill.

A maid received him on his first knock. The atmosphere of the household was tense and anticipatory, as though the very woodwork had been waiting to meet this new arrival. There seemed to be a face peeking around every open doorway, and Tom thought he saw the shadow of an older woman up the main staircase—he hadn’t even contemplated grandparents. Having any family at all was a foreign concept; having an extended family was incomprehensible. All too soon, there were no more distractions, and Tom was seated in a receiving parlor and facing the man he had imagined his entire life.

Looking at Tom Riddle Sr. was like looking into the future. Senior was a handsome older man, if one were to describe him generally, but that’s not what Tom noticed. He was struck by the familiar qualities in the other man’s features. Tom saw the defined tip of his nose, and the shape of his cupid’s bow, and the squareness of his chin. Tom didn’t appreciate that the man across from him had aged well when he examined his crow’s feet; rather, he wondered if his own skin would wrinkle the same way. It was all too clear that Senior was doing the same in return—their physical similarities were impossible to ignore. They were clearly different people, even aside from age: Senior was less pale, Tom’s hair was darker, Senior’s build was a touch broader, Tom was a touch taller, but they were unmistakably parent and child.

Neither man seemed to recognize the silence between them until a maid bustled in with their tea. The interruption jarred something loose and awkwardness settled in the room, both Senior and Junior hesitantly taking their own cups as though the national ritual might save them from having to make the first move. Tom, for perhaps the first time in his life, sank gladly into the role of a child and waited for his elder to speak.

Tom Sr. managed an uncomfortable cough, hesitated, and then said, “So it’s true, then. You are my son.”

Junior wanted to laugh, or to scoff, or to somehow hold himself apart from this middle-aged stranger who wore his face and who had ignored him for so many years, who would happily have kept ignoring him if not for the insistence of Abraxas. He couldn’t, though. Some long-buried thing inside of him broke free when Senior referred to him as his son, and he gasped out, “You are my father.”

Another silence stretched as both men reoriented themselves in this world where they were father and son.

Again, Senior rose to the role expected of the head of a family and spoke first. “And… your mother?”

“Dead,” Tom’s voice was detached. “She died giving birth to me. I was raised in an orphanage.”

Senior winced at the clear rebuke but pushed ahead. There was no sense stopping this confrontation partway through. “You’re magic, like her.” It wasn’t a question, because the letters from both Tom and Abraxas had made that much clear if the reader was looking for it, but this was the type of thing that needed in-person confirmation. 

Tom let out a long breath before responding, and Senior watched his son’s hand dart to a pocket and close around something contained within it. He did not withdraw what must be his wand, but he clearly drew comfort from knowing it was there. That would have been enough of a confirmation for Tom Sr., but Tom eventually spoke. “I am a wizard, yes.” Junior gave his father a level look before broaching the other barrier in their relationship. “Is that why you left her?”

“I left her as soon as she returned my free will to me,” Senior spat as he stiffened his posture. “I will not hold the sins of your mother against you, but I refuse to pretend that I am at fault for my own violation.” His words carried the weight of years of living with trauma, and Tom shrank back from them, not having anticipated this response.

He’d been prepared to learn that his father had been a rake in his youth and run from responsibility. He could have accepted that his existence was a surprise, and his father hadn’t known of him. He already knew that the Gaunts were disgusting tramps, and hardly appealing company for the likes of the wealthy Riddles, but in his mind, his mother was a weak, pathetic woman, someone to be pitied and dismissed. He could not reconcile this image with Tom Sr.’s comment about free will.

“What do you mean, she violated you?”

“Just so. The woman bewitched me, and I was… _in love_ with her the same day I met her. We eloped soon after. I remember—I remember everything.” The older man’s eyes were haunted as he spoke, and Tom shuddered in horror at the implications of his words. “She stopped using her magic to control me some months into our marriage. I don’t understand why, but she thought I might want to stay with her. If she had never had that delusion, I would never have been able to leave.”

“A love potion,” Tom offered in a strained tone that he couldn’t fully process. “She abducted you with a love potion, it sounds like. That’s foul magic.”

Tom Sr. seemed to visibly relax at his son’s mention of abduction, as though the one word affirmed their shared understanding of Merope Gaunt’s assault. Junior would hopefully never truly comprehend it, never know what it was like to lose faith in your own mind as someone violated your body for months, but if he could appreciate even a fraction of the reasoning behind Senior’s choices and neglect of fatherly responsibilities, there was hope for them now. 

He offered his son what meager sympathy he had available. “I am sorry for the circumstances of your birth. It was unfair for your life to be so impacted by what happened between your mother and myself.”

Tom surprised himself by returning in kind. Attempting to reconcile with one’s father was a primal impulse. “I am sorry for how you were introduced to magic. Given what you’ve said, I understand if my presence in your life would be too much for you to bear.”

It was a lie, of course, even if Tom didn’t consciously acknowledge that. His statement was too unbearably vulnerable to be anything other than a test: could this man who claimed the title of father even begin to make up for the wounds left by Tom’s parentless upbringing? He carried the imprint of his father throughout his whole being. He looked like his father, he was named for his father, he was raised in the Muggle world because of his father. He had dreamed of his father. He still dreamed of his father. Junior needed this man’s acceptance, needed him to at least try, even though they were both adults, even though their lives were so different, because a part of him would never stop being that lonely young boy unless this man, his family, wanted him.

If his father did not want him, the dark part of his soul whispered, there was always the option to introduce him to even darker magic than love potions. Tom tried to ignore this pull, but as the silence stretched on while his father deliberated his response, it became harder to write off. He fingered his wand anxiously to dissipate the tense energy within him.

Senior seemed to pick up on the gesture and grew visibly agitated, folding his hands together and wringing his fingers. Neither observed the symmetry of their actions. “I—I don’t know how to do this, Tom,” Tom Sr. said his son’s name for the first time, and his son gripped his wand harder in surprise. “I have never acted as a father, and you’re no longer a boy. I’m not sure how I will handle your magic.” The use of the future tense sent Junior’s traitorous sense of hope flying. “We should try, though. I only have one son, and you only have one father. We might as well see.”

“I would like that,” Tom agreed too quickly. He felt too much in this moment, and suddenly the well-appointed parlor in his _father’s_ home seemed stifling. He needed to have space, he needed to be alone. He stood abruptly, which was matched by Tom Sr.

“I’ll, er, show you out.”

“No, I—I can manage. I’ll write?” Salazar, Tom Riddle (Tom Riddle _Junior_ , now, his mind supplied with a touch of unwanted optimism) did not ask permission like a schoolboy. He despised the weakness in his own voice and would have fled the mansion after his father’s nod if Senior hadn’t thrust a mess of books into Tom’s arms, physically arresting him.

“I finished all of these recently. I’m not sure what you like, or if wizards read for entertainment, but there’s some Auden and Faulkner and Woolf and… it doesn’t matter. Take them. Maybe—maybe we can discuss them sometime.” His tone was uneven. He couldn’t meet Tom’s eyes.

And then Tom did flee, rushing past the help, past the staircase that promised extended family, out the grand door and down the hill into the anonymity of the alleys in Little Hangleton, where he could disapparate.

Tom slammed shut the floo in his flat as soon as he arrived. Severus and Abraxas would want to know what had happened. He could picture Abraxas’ badly-hidden curiosity and hear Severus’ cautious questions, but Tom had no capacity for others right now, not when his own emotions were overwhelming. 

He had a _father_. 

Senior wasn’t a guarantee. The man had been violated in the worst way by Tom’s mother, and was plainly apprehensive about magic as a result. Though their conversation had been vulnerable, it had not been intimate. But such cool and collected logical reasoning barely penetrated Tom’s mind, because it paled in comparison to having a living family member that wanted to try with him. How many years had he spent imagining his father? Even after the disappointment of realizing that his father was a Muggle, Tom hadn’t stopped wanting to know the man who helped create him. He’d wondered whether they were alike. He thought about who his father was, what he enjoyed, what he might have shared with his son if he had raised Tom himself. 

And it was real, now. Tom clutched his father’s books hard to his chest, letting the corners dig into his flesh just to reassure himself that they were here. It didn’t matter to Tom that they were Muggle authors, or that he had read some of them already, because he had a father who gave him a gift and wanted to see him again. He shook with the force of his dry sobs as he cried over his years of isolation and abandonment, which had finally come to an end.


	9. Chapter 9

Tom called upon Abraxas the next day.

“Good evening, old chap. I was wondering when I would see you,” the blond drawled. His carefully-crafted persona was ruined by the presence of a strung-out young Draco clawing and crying at Abraxas’ feet.

“What in Merlin’s name is happening here?” Tom was immediately shocked out of his own self-pity.

“Lucy and Cissy are out tonight and forced me to watch Draco. They think we don’t have a close enough relationship. Can you imagine?” Draco was wailing dramatically, his little feet and hands pounding on the plush carpet of Abraxas’ parlor as the man himself stepped around his nephew to take Tom’s cloak.

“Right. An inconceivable claim.” Tom evaluated the situation. He considered the hour. “He should be in bed by now.”

Abraxas shrugged affably. “That sounds accurate. Why isn’t he asleep, then?” He appeared earnestly confused about the behavior of the child.

Tom considered his options. He hadn’t come here to care for a child; he was supposed to be long past that duty. However, this particular child stood between him and his badly-needed consultation with his friend. “I’ll fix this for you if you help me,” he finally said.

“You’re seeing Severus tomorrow,” Abraxas began as comprehension dawned in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“And you saw your father yesterday.”

“You know that.” Tom glared at his friend.

“Sweet Salazar, you came to me for help sorting through your mess?” Abraxas grinned gleefully, his screaming nephew forgotten in the background. “Oh, Tom, we _are_ friends.”

Tom didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Instead, he scooped up the crying child and looked over the boy. He was disheveled but unharmed, and definitely exhausted, because his little arms could only move weakly. Draco was old enough to understand when he was being spoken to—Tom wasn’t sure of the boy’s age, but he must have been somewhere around three—and so Tom chose the direct approach. 

“Draco.” The small blond quieted down and opened his silvery eyes to look at Tom at the mention of his name. “We are going to bathe you and get you to bed. If you behave, you will get one bedtime story. If you cry, you will go to bed without a story. Is that clear?” Draco approximated a nod, and that was good enough for Tom.

“Abraxas, where is the boy’s bathroom?”

“We have to give him a bath?” His friend’s whine sounded much like that of his nephew.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Narcissa must have told you this.”

“Who knows?” Abraxas waved his small, soft hands, which had definitely never bathed another, in a gesture of helpless confusion. “It would be impossible to say what may or may not have been expected of me. A mystery for the ages.”

“Children are bathed before bed,” Tom sighed in resignation.

“This must be one of those orphanage things,” Abraxas replied. ‘Orphanage things’ was the label Abraxas applied to every piece of practical competency Tom had ever displayed. Tom still wasn’t sure if he truly thought only orphans knew how to manage routine tasks on their own or if he was self-aware enough to recognize the privilege of his wealth.

“Yes, well. Bathroom?” 

Draco’s bathroom, which Tom confirmed belonged solely to the child, was larger than Tom’s flat. He put aside his resentment, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and got the tap flowing. 

“So, what was dear father like?” Abraxas had pulled a padded stool from somewhere and draped himself upon it as Tom worked to undress the boy from his tangled robes.

“He looks like me. I don’t know why I didn’t expect that. I knew I didn’t look like a Gaunt, but I hadn’t realized how much I looked like a Riddle. Turn.” He directed Draco to help him reach the button fastening his inner robes together and finally removed the whole ensemble. Turning the tap off, Tom tested the bathwater and judged it to be suitably warm but not hot. “In you go, and don’t you dare try to splash me,” he said as he lifted the child.

“How alike, then? Same build, same hair, same eyes, what is it?” Abraxas, a Malfoy, was intimately familiar with inherited appearance.

“It was like looking into a mirror, frankly. Also, I think I have a grandmother.” Tom lathered soap between his hands, the familiar motion calming his nerves.

“You didn’t confirm that you have a grandmother?” Abraxas prodded for more. “What did you do when you were there, then?”

Tom washed the boy’s fingers and toes, making sure his head never went below the water. “I learned some very unpleasant things about my mother, actually.” Abraxas wasn’t speaking; he was too afraid to perturb Tom in this state. Tom didn’t notice that. He didn’t notice that it took him two tries to remove the cap from Draco’s shampoo. In his mind, he was handling this just fine. “She used a love potion on Father. Can you imagine? Putting in that level of effort to seduce a Muggle?” Tom’s hands shook as he washed the boy’s hair, and he had to keep rinsing suds from Draco’s forehead so they wouldn’t get into the child’s eyes. “He wasn’t too pleased with her when she stopped dosing him, so he ran off. I don’t know what to find more insulting: that she used a love potion on a Muggle, or that she thought she could stop and he would stick around.”

Abraxas loosely placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder, and the dark-haired man realized that he was just idly carding his hands through the boy’s hair instead of actively washing it. He took a deep breath, shrugged off his friend’s awkward attempt at comfort, and started pouring clean water through Draco’s soapy hair. He finished bathing the child in silence, neither man wanting to broach the natural conclusion of this topic in front of a young boy.

Tom retold a half-remembered version of Winnie-the-Pooh with Draco in place of Christopher Robin for the boy’s bedtime story. He swapped Rabbit out for a niffler so that Abraxas couldn’t guess its Muggle provenance. Back at the orphanage, Tom had completed these tasks begrudgingly and only because they were required of the older children, but there was something soothing about practicing a well-developed skill, and he calmed considerably before he had to really talk to Abraxas again.

They were back in the younger brother’s parlor when they picked up their earlier discussion. It was getting late, and Tom would normally be home by now, but he could not face Severus tomorrow without getting through this at least once. He wasn’t ready for Severus to see him so unbalanced. Abraxas, though, has seen Tom through everything.

It was Abraxas’ unflinching and largely unsentimental attitude that helped Tom speak in a steady tone as he picked up again. “I guess I just expected it to be the other way around.”

“Your father taking advantage of your mother, you mean,” Abraxas euphemistically supplied.

“He’s a Muggle and a man. If one parent was going to be capable of that brutality, I thought…” Tom didn’t finish that sentence and switched topics instead. “She died the night I was born, you know. How pathetic is that? She was a witch and she allowed herself to give birth in a dirty Muggle orphanage; it’s no wonder she died. I thought she was such a pitiful thing, and my father must have thought of her as some insignificant diversion. I never understood why they were married.”

Abraxas averted his eyes and fiddled with a cushion as he responded with an experimental prod. “How did your father seem to feel about it when you talked to him?”

Tom took a minute to consider Abraxas’ question. He could perfectly recall the conversation, but he needed time to try and process the other man’s emotions. He had been too swept up in his own feelings, that day, to register those of his father. “He held no fondness for her.” That much was abundantly clear. “However… he wasn’t short with me. He—he indicated that he would like to see me again.” Tom didn’t want to talk about the books. Those were private.

“That’s good, then. And is he as wealthy as you thought?” Abraxas cut to the point, now that they had cleared the biggest hurdle. Tom had been invited back. Everything remaining was trivial in comparison.

“Wealthy enough, for a Muggle,” the dark-haired man said disinterestedly. Tom’s mind was still in another parlor, with memories of a man very different from Abraxas.

“So you’ll see him again and work out some kind of understanding.”

Tom cringed at such a crass description of their future relationship, but knew it might very well be accurate. “Some kind, yes.” He wanted something much more than an understanding with his father.

“More importantly, my friend: are you ready for Severus tomorrow?” Abraxas’ grin was that of the cheshire cat. He had clearly come back to himself and was ready to move on from the emotionally-charged topics still roiling in Tom’s mind.

Tom groaned but acquiesced. “Perhaps I’ll be ill tomorrow.”

“I haven’t seen you fall ill in a decade,” Abraxas scoffed.

“A distraction, then.” Tom’s eyes lit up as he put together a plan. “You should offer to watch Draco again tomorrow. You obviously need me to help.”

“Not even for you, Tom.” The blond looked properly distressed at the prospect. “And besides, that idea wouldn’t work in your favor—Severus would race you through the floo to help with Draco.” 

“He’s your nephew, good fellow. You’ll have to learn to take care of him eventually,” he volleyed back.

Abraxas laughed at him. “I’m planning for the long-term, old chap. He will love me when I help him smuggle firewhisky into Hogwarts.”

“That’s… actually likely to be successful,” Tom said. He was impressed—Abraxas wasn’t typically one for ingenuity. “His parents might not be thrilled with you, though.”

“Just Lucius, and I can handle Lucy. Never forget that Cissy is a Black.”

The Blacks were behind the wildest Slytherin parties—not that Tom had indulged, much, and certainly never after the Avery incident. “Yes, well. You make a good point about Severus.”

“Of course I do,” Abraxas gloated with an errant wave of his hand. “Use your charm to distract him. Jump the man. Or—wild idea—you could talk to him and see how it goes.”

Tom shot Abraxas a venomous glare, but his friend was slumped too far back in his seat to appreciate it, insolent child that he was. He noted the time and decided to end the visit. He couldn’t handle much more of this unbearable familiarity.

“I work tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, good night to you, too. Say hello to Severus for me.”


	10. Chapter 10

Severus felt the tension radiating off of Tom when he arrived for tea. It was Severus’ week to host, and he hadn’t been sure if Tom would even show. Tom would never have made excuses, he would have simply not appeared, so it was a relief to see his apprehensive expression and nervous grey-brown eyes this afternoon.

He even brought the biscuits.

Was it worth pretending that Severus wasn’t dying to know how Tom’s visit with his father had gone? He weighed the possibilities as he prepared their tea. Tom carried no delusions that Severus wouldn’t want to talk about the visit. However, there was something almost fragile about the other man, today, as though he might break if forced to talk. Tom always pulled back from vulnerability with humor or anger when they had talked previously. Severus thought, with no vanity or pride, that something about himself seemed to draw the vulnerability out of Tom. He wouldn’t have wished for that ability, but tenderness for the man had its claws in his very soul and he could hardly disavow Tom now.

He’d expected this to go so, so differently when they met. He’d thought—well, whatever Tom’s initial interest, something much more intimate than either could have anticipated had bloomed between them. 

Severus opted for the gentle approach. “How is the shop this week?”

Tom’s face flashed an expression of gratitude so quickly that Severus would have missed it if he hadn’t known his friend’s mannerisms so well. That thought shook him.

“Dull. We do poorly in the late winter; no one wants to haul around cursed curiosities in this weather. People start clearing out their dead relatives’ homes in spring.” Tom paused, appearing to deliberate, though he may have simply been stalling for time. “An unmarried Rosier woman died two weeks back. She was nearly 200. Her collection will be fascinating, when I talk her nephew into opening it to me.”

Severus didn’t like the morbidity of that thought at all, but antiques were inextricable from death. Perhaps that’s why he chose to furnish his flat with entirely new items. That, or it was the luxury of finally having the money, though it was from a Malfoy, to avoid secondhand.

“She’s rumored to have some illuminated manuscripts from the late 16th century, during the period when they were just starting to classify magic as dark. The illustrations are said to have been a form of propaganda, and each curse’s effects were depicted with gruesome detail. I’ve heard that there’s an animated diagram of a man being split in half lengthwise that’s—oh.” Tom finally noticed Severus’ already-deathly pallor turning a bit green. “My apologies. It’s an acquired taste.”

“Quite,” Severus managed to say. His fascination with the dark arts was purely academic. He had never developed a tolerance for human gore. “So… things are going well for you?”

“Oh, Severus.” Tom’s bright mood faded quickly as they moved on from the topic of work. “I might gain a father. It’s too early to tell. However, I think I’ve lost a mother.”

How did one respond to that? Tom’s mum was long dead, but that seemed too blunt to say. Severus debated, then said it anyway. “Your mum’s dead, Tom.”

At least his crassness earned him a wry smile from Tom. “Indeed, she is. Apparently, your read on someone can change even decades after they’re gone.” He said it lightly, as though this was just a topic of passing interest, the type of thing one might read about in the papers and bring up in casual conversation. “Father told me she used magic to compel his affections, Severus.”

“Do you believe him?” Severus, as much as he might try to be understanding, fundamentally did not trust father-figures. They were surely capable of kind gestures, or pretenses of humanity, but they would betray you in the end. He would not give Tom Riddle Sr. any benefit of the doubt.

Tom looked at him a bit strangely. “Yes. I do believe him. I think, though I have no concrete evidence, that she must have used a strong love potion… perhaps even amortentia.”

Severus, the potioneer, inhaled sharply through his clenched teeth. “That’s _vile_.”

Despite Slughorn’s cavalier attitude toward teaching the potion to his students, every Slytherin was taught the seriousness of its use. Each house had their traditions, and what Slytherins inherited from their seniors was an understanding of _intent_. Slytherins were not allowed to excuse their behavior by claiming it was just a prank, like those rash Gryffindors, or by saying they hadn’t expected the other person’s hurt, like the socially-stunted Ravenclaws, or by claiming ignorance of something’s effects, like the simple Hufflepuffs. 

If a Slytherin was to use magic, they were to do so intentionally. They were supposed to mean it. No curse was thrown without accepting the possibility of the worst outcome. Certainly, no person raised in Slytherin would dare to use a love potion as life-altering as amortentia without fully committing to removing the recipient’s agency. That would never be done lightly.

Both men understood what this made Merope Gaunt.

“Tom.” Severus couldn’t really imagine what to say beyond his name. An apology felt inappropriate, and he was on the verge of offering one anyway when he heard a key turn in the lock of his front door.

He and Tom startled. He wasn’t sure what Tom was thinking, but there were only two people with a key to his flat, and Lucius always arrived by floo, which meant that the person at the door was—

“Mam!” He yelped her name as the woman appeared before him. Severus had trained himself to say mum when he referred to the position abstractly, but when it came to addressing her directly, it would always be Mam.

“It’s me, Severus,” she said in her usual, terse manner. She wasn’t a mean mother, she just seemed to have lost the capacity to verbally express warmth somewhere along the way. 

Severus wondered what Tom saw when he looked at the woman. In his own eyes, his mother looked unbearably like himself: she had the same long, straight black hair and dark eyes as he did; she was pale and skinny and harassed-looking, just like him. They weren’t exact copies—Severus got his nose and deep-set eyes from Da—but they were undeniably related. He wondered what Riddle Sr. looked like.

“You have a guest?” His mum’s voice cut through his shocked paralysis. 

“Er.” Severus was losing the thread. Why was Mam here? Did he ask her to leave? Did he ask Tom to leave? Maybe he should leave.

Tom, if he had experienced any shock from the intrusion, had long since recovered. He was up and greeting Severus’ mum in an instant.

“Madam Snape, I presume?” He took her hand and kissed it, the same old-world greeting that had so destabilized Severus all those months ago. His mother accepted the pleasantry with the ingrained manners of a pureblood witch. “Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Tom Riddle, the heir of House Gaunt, and a friend of your son’s. I hope you can pardon me for intruding on family time.” Tom excused himself deftly, despite all three people in the room knowing that it was hardly he who had intruded. It was the proper thing to do.

She appraised Tom. Severus shrank back in his seat, knowing what would come next. “You can call me Eileen, boy. If you’re friends with my Rus, you know I’m no Madam.” Next, she turned to Severus. “Your friend is charming, kid. Where are your manners?”

“Mam, I—you didn’t say you were stopping by.” He felt faint.

She seated herself on the couch, facing both men, as Tom returned to his chair. “I was shopping.” She patted the cloth bag at her side, doubtless stuffed full of premade potions from the cheaper apothecary on Diagon. She was too proud to ask Severus with help brewing, and he was too resentful to offer. “I shouldn’t need an excuse to see my boy. Are you going to fix me a cup?”

Severus belatedly jumped to action. Merlin, how was he going to get himself out of this awkward situation? If his mum was taking tea, she intended to stay a while. He could only hope that this was one of her attempts at a casual, friendly visit, and not one of the times where she came with a particular family discussion in mind.

He handed over her cup with a muttered apology.

“Speak clearly, child. I raised you with better manners than that,” she chastised.

“I apologize for being an unprepared host, Mam.”

Tom interceded again, smoothing over the rough edges of the Snapes. “Really, Eileen, I must insist on taking any blame. Severus and I were engaged in quite a difficult discussion when you arrived; I’m afraid that I have distracted him from his usual level of poise.” His smile was at its fullest brilliance. He was still trying to win over the stern woman.

She looked at Tom skeptically. He was too obviously putting on a face for Mam to be swayed, and Severus allowed himself a moment to appreciate that if Tom had been able to be open about his recent visit with his father, Mam’s heart of ice would have melted on the spot. She’d wanted as much from her own son for years.

“If you’re already in the mood for difficult conversations, there’s no sense in me avoiding it. Lily Evans stopped by last week.” Mam gave him a critical look, clearly waiting for him to break.

It took about ten seconds before Severus could stutter out a response. “L—Lily stopped by?” 

Tom was eyeing her with silent interest as his mum continued. “Her mother passed recently. She said she didn’t know how else to let you know. Don’t you worry,” she anticipated Severus’ panic, “I sent flowers. I thought you didn’t speak to her anymore.”

Tom swung his head around to Severus, and his eyes clearly communicated the same sentiment. Everyone in their generation knew that Severus Snape and Lily Evans had explosively fallen out in their fifth year of Hogwarts. 

“We don’t, really. Er, I just, I ran into her over the hols. I was with Narcissa.” It was a pathetic defense, and Severus knew he only made himself sound more suspect. “I’m sorry to hear her mum passed.”

“Tell her that, if you’re on speaking terms,” Mam shot back.

“Mam, do we really have to do this?” Severus pleaded, heedless of how young it made him seem.

“Yes, we do, Severus. You promised me that you wouldn’t go back to her.”

“I’m not, I swear—”

“No, keep quiet until I finish,” she rolled over his interruption. “There’s nothing good for you there. There’s nothing good for her, either. I know you regret what you said, but she married that boy that’s friends with the werewolf and the Black outcast, Severus. You allied yourself to your cousins and my family, Salazar knows why.”

“Mam, Lucius is a good person,” he attempted to argue.

“He’s absolutely not, but he does value family. Profit from that if you can do it and keep your integrity; it makes you smarter than me. But, Merlin, you burnt your bridge with that girl, even if both of you are pretending not to see the smoke. Stick to Slytherins for another decade.”

She turned her heavy gaze to Tom now that her lecture was finished. “You said you were a Gaunt?”

“Yes, by way of my mother,” he answered.

“You don’t look like I would have expected. That’s probably a good thing.” Tom choked at that frank statement. “You’re not the heir for your father’s family. Older brother?” The other man shook his head. “Ah. Half-blood. I see why my Rus likes you.”

“Yes, well.” Tom stood, apparently disconcerted by the discussion of his blood status, not that Severus could blame him. “I should get going. I have work tomorrow morning.” Severus and his mother both stood as well, and Tom crossed to Mam first. 

Taking her hand again in his own, he pressed a swift kiss to her knuckles. “It was good to meet you, Eileen.”

“A pleasure, Tom,” she returned. “I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

He nodded and moved to Severus. Tom’s grip was gentle and hot as he pulled Severus’ hand up; his lips felt indecent on the rough, calloused knuckles. “I’ll see you next week, Severus,” he said lightly, but his meaningful glance indicated that their conversation would continue. Severus’ throat knotted up and he didn’t dare respond to Tom in front of his mum.

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone,” she broke the silence only once Tom’s footsteps had retreated down the hall outside his flat.

“I’m not, Mam,” Severus dejectedly protested. Everyone seemed to assume—it was like Lily all over again.

His mum stared pointedly at his hands, the fingers of one absently rubbing the knuckles of the other, where Tom’s lips had briefly been placed. He hadn’t even noticed his anxious movements before her glance. 

“If you’re not, now,” she cautioned, “you will be, soon. Is that something you want?”

Severus was paralyzed. He’d avoided this question in his own head for months. What did he want with Tom? The man was gorgeous, of course. Clever. He enjoyed spending time with Tom. It was nice to see someone socially who wasn’t a relative. Severus had few friends in his post-Hogwarts life, and none at all, other than Tom, with whom he met up outside of Malfoy parties.

However, his life was simple by design. He was working toward a potions mastery. He might open his own business when that was complete, or maybe he would research and develop new potions. He was a responsible godfather for Draco. He was biding time until he took over as Lord Prince. 

Perhaps he was bored. Tom, among many other things, was a fantastic cure for boredom. That wasn’t quite fair to ask of him, Severus knew. Using someone else’s messy life for his own entertainment made him feel like the worst sort of person. Their relationship was more than just that, wasn’t it? They were friends. There was a certain fondness. If Tom ever asked for more…

“Oh, Severus,” his mum’s voice reached him as though from a great distance, and Severus realized he must have waited too long to answer her. She embraced him, her wiry arms rocking him gently, and he returned her hug with more emotion than he would have thought possible. He was afraid of trusting someone new, again. Da and Lily and even Mam, though she was still here, were all just proof that his trust wasn’t enough. How could he expect reciprocation from a scheming, climbing, _messy_ Slytherin when a pure-hearted Gryffindor hadn’t been able to provide it? How could he expect forgiveness for his inevitable failures? Lily and Severus had come to an _understanding_ , after everything, but they could never mend the rift between them. He and Tom were fucked if they tried to be anything more, and Severus knew that _he_ , at least, wouldn’t have the constitution to stop it once they’d started. That wasn’t how Severus loved. Even as his mum held him, he resented her for making him confront this.


	11. Chapter 11

It was Tom’s week to host.

Severus anticipated the challenging discussion that lay ahead of them and picked up dinner before arriving.

Tom looked mildly surprised at the change in their routine. “Are you trying to bribe me with pub food, Severus?”

“Pies, mash, and pudding,” the dark-eyed man offered the wrapped parcels to his host.

“You might succeed, then. It’s not from the Leaky, is it?” Tom called over his shoulder as he went to plate their meal.

Severus shook his head, though Tom couldn’t see from where he stood. “No, you always complain about their mash. I went to the Muggle place you like.”

“Thank Merlin, Severus, that you’re a good listener. The Leaky uses too much magic, you know? Their potatoes are overworked; it makes the mash stodgy.”

“And you would know from your bountiful culinary experience, Riddle?”

Tom’s gaze was heavy and suggestive as he handed Severus his dish. “I could cook for you.” What Tom didn’t dare speak aloud was the intimacy of that act. Having Severus over for tea or visiting a pub together was fine between single friends, but inviting him over for a home-cooked meal was undeniably not. He watched Severus clear his throat, blush, and look away. “Yes, well. I fancy sitting on the sofa tonight, do you mind?”

“While we eat?” 

“Don’t be precious, Severus,” Tom dismissed the other man’s concern. “We both know this is going to be awful. We might as well be comfortable.”

Conceding, Severus folded himself into one corner of the sofa. Tom watched with some amusement as the lanky man tucked his long legs—shoes removed and revealing surprisingly bare feet—beneath himself on the sagging cushion. He had the look of someone afraid to impose. It was a little sad and a little sweet.

Tom, comfortable in his own home, stretched his legs out to rest on the coffee table. He sprawled. 

“So,” Tom began, digging his fork into his mash. “That was Eileen.”

“Yeah, that was Mam,” Severus said with a wince. Tom privately revelled in the way that the man’s Northern accent slipped through his address. It was one thing to know that they had both removed the stain of low-class childhoods from their voices, and another thing entirely to hear proof.

“She cares about you. She… isn’t living among wizards, is she?” Severus shook his head in the negative. “I can’t understand that. Whatever her experience with purebloods, how can the Muggle world be more appealing? She has to hide her true nature.”

“Mam’s lived there for so long that she’s caught between worlds, like us.”

Tom laughed dismissively. “Oh, Severus, I am fully a wizard, despite my heritage.”

Severus looked pointedly at Tom’s plate of food, then demonstratively held up his mince pie. 

“Wizards are worse cooks,” Tom started to defend himself, “it’s the over-reliance on… magic. Shite.” Damn Severus. No good deed came without its price. “It’s almost as though you planned this,” he grumbled as Severus smirked. “What’s ‘Rus’ about, then?”

Severus put down his fork and shot a serious look at Tom. “That name is for Mam only. It—it fit in more with the Muggles. If you ever call me Rus, _Junior_ , I’ll have to kill you.”

“I would like to see how you tried, Severus, but I take your point.” Tom smarted from the reminder of his own father. “I take it that you’re going to ask about my father, now.”

“Well,” Severus drawled, “if you’re offering.”

“I’m not,” Tom shot back.

“Great. Are you meeting him again?” 

Tom watched his guest tidy his plate, clearing an empty spot for the sticky toffee pudding. Severus was a fastidious eater, and Tom had to stop himself from staring at the man. It would probably make him uncomfortable.

“I have to return his books,” Tom offered. “I think I might go back this weekend.” This was his first time acknowledging his half-formed plan. Tom had no good way to communicate with his father. They could exchange letters by post, but it was a slow process. Tom could have found a public phone if he had his father’s number, but they weren’t that intimate. He would have preferred to send an owl, but that was straight out without a frank conversation first. All this left Tom contemplating an unannounced visit, and the prospect frightened him.

“He loaned you books?” Severus looked like he was holding himself back from asking to see the titles, which Tom appreciated. He wasn’t ready to share those with anyone, not even Severus, who might actually read Muggle literature. “Hm. He must be expecting you back. Will you begin introducing him to magic?”

“I don’t see much of an alternative,” he found himself admitting. “I’m not willing to pretend as though I’m not a wizard. I’m hardly going to be able to install a telephone in this flat.”

“Don’t start with owls. Da never got used to those. Of course, the mail was never for him, but—start with something easy. Back issues of the Prophet and Witch Weekly, since he likes to read. _Hogwarts: A History_. Don’t even draw your wand until he has some context for magic that isn’t about causing harm.”

A weight lifted from Tom’s shoulders at the suggestions. He even managed a small smile, a real, joyful smile. “You’re brilliant, Severus. Imagine if I had this conversation with Abraxas, instead.”

“Abraxas would have told you to apparate the man straight into Diagon Alley, where he would have vomited in front of the whole world.” Severus rolled his eyes at the imagined suggestion, and Tom had to admit it sounded like the sort of plan a pureblood would conjure up. Merlin, it was what was expected of every first-year Muggleborn’s parents. “Actually, add this to your list, Tom. Bring him some wizarding sweets. The Muggles are still rationing. Stay away from drinks, if your love potion theory is correct, but candy should be unobjectionable. Prepackaged stuff, like from Honeyduke’s.”

“You could dose chocolate truffles with a potion, if you wanted,” Tom felt the need to point out.

Severus Snape, a potions master in training, glared back at Tom. “It’s about avoiding the association, smart-arse.”

Tom conceded with a flippant wave. “Sweets and reading material. I can manage that. Now,” he cleared his throat, “tell me about Lily Evans.”

He watched Severus deliberately place down his empty plate as he stalled for time. Tom, now past the point of having to answer questions, plated his own pudding and made a show of eating it slowly as he waited for Severus’ response.

When it came, it sounded like each word was being forcibly pulled from Severus’ unwilling mouth, his voice was so strained. “I am not in touch with her, and I’m as surprised as anyone that she reached out to Mam. Narcissa and I saw her on Boxing Day, out shopping. She was with her son, and Narcissa had Draco, and that was the main point of interest.”

Tom appreciated the confirmation, but this wasn’t the real issue. Setting aside his plate, he said, “Oh, I believed you the first time on that front. What I mean to ask about is what Eileen said. Why did she tell you to leave Evans alone?”

“Er.” Severus looked uncomfortable in a totally new way. Was he embarrassed? “You know we stopped talking after—after my OWLs, in my fifth year.” 

Tom nodded. Everyone remembered Severus’ disrobing by the Black Lake. “That was an awful and inhumane excuse for a prank. If she ended your friendship over that incident, it’s her who should be leaving you alone, Severus.” He was making assumptions, he knew, but he couldn’t imagine a scenario where an exposed and vulnerable Severus was the party at fault.

His companion’s voice was soft and low when he responded. “I called her a mudblood when she tried to help me.”

“Oh.”

“I know. I’m—I regret it so much. I’m so sorry, Tom, I should never—”

Tom interjected, horrified that Severus was of such a different mind about his action. “No. Severus, don’t do that. Everyone called everyone a mudblood back at Hogwarts. Abraxas called me a mudblood for five years and he still hasn’t apologized for that. He won’t ever.”

“It’s a terrible word, Tom.”

“And you think that I don’t know it’s a slur?” he shot back. “I was _the Slytherin mudblood_ for seven years.”

“Then you should appreciate how much I hurt her by using that word. It was inexcusable,” Severus argued angrily. His hand was clutching the back of the sofa hard, leaving indents shaped like his fingertips in the worn and overtaxed stuffing.

Tom drew up his own legs underneath him so that he could turn and face Severus. On the small sofa, their knees were almost touching, but both men were too upset to notice their proximity. “What I _appreciate_ about the situation is that you were immobilized, off the ground, and being forcibly stripped bare by some of the cruelest men to ever pass for Hogwarts students. Forgive me for assuming you were not your best self at the moment she tried to intervene.”

“Were you there, Tom?” Severus asked bitterly. “Have you ever been stripped and humiliated?”

“No, but—”

“It’s my call to make. I used a slur to refer to my friend, and that is unforgivable.” Severus said this with such conviction that he didn’t seem to notice Tom’s darkening face.

“So are you arguing that I shouldn’t be friends with Abraxas? You call Lily Evans a mudblood once and she has the right to forever denounce you as a scoundrel. Abraxas used the term multiple times a day for nearly five full years, do I have the right to kill him, claim his fortune, and slash all of his sofa cushions on the way out?”

“Your friendships are your own business,” the other man tried, but Tom could see the uncertainty creeping into his expression.

He jumped at the chance to further his point. “You said the use of the word was unforgivable, without qualification. That condemns me for my relationship with Abraxas. Which is it, unforgivable or my business?”

“Er—” Severus clearly wasn’t sure how to answer, and Tom didn’t give him time to think before pouncing again.

“Did you earnestly apologize to her?”

“Of course I apologized to her!” Severus cried. “I’m not an emotionless brute.”

“Neither is Abraxas, but he never apologized. Regardless,” Tom moved on from his aside, returning to his main argument. “You’re right that friendships are only the business of the two people involved, but there’s always a choice.” Severus shot Tom a glare for turning his own words around on him, which only made Tom feel more confident in his reasoning. “She chose not to forgive you, as was her right, but the act is hardly unforgivable.” More gently, Tom said, “You can hold both of those things to be true.”

He didn’t want to see Severus brought so low by a teenage falling-out. Tom hadn’t paid much attention to Snape at that age, but anyone could have predicted that the awkward Slytherin loner and the popular Gryffindor wouldn’t have remained close friends for all seven years. It had been something of a miracle that they lasted as long as they did. On top of that inherent instability, Severus had apologized for his offensive comment made in distress. It was more than Tom would have done at that age. Though Tom avoided slurs out of principle, he still thought he might not bother apologizing for generically rude comments made today, depending on the target. 

It was this unfamiliar impulse to provide comfort that led Tom to close the gap between them and lay his hand on Severus’ knee. It wasn’t an intimate or suggestive gesture—they were facing each other, rather than side-by-side—but it got his friend’s attention all the same.

Severus spoke first. “She and I aren’t friends… but she did talk to me after the werewolf incident. We—we worked it out. She had never taken their cruelty seriously. She said she couldn’t forgive me for the slur, but she admitted that she’d misread the situation by the lake.”

There was something magnetic about Severus’ sadness, and Tom was drawn forward. Tom whispered his name and their eyes met. 

“Severus,” Tom said again as he leaned into the other man, brushing his lips against Severus’ warm mouth. 

He felt Severus’ hands reach for his hips as the black-haired man fell backward against the arm of the sofa. Tom followed, pushing his fingers through the long, silky hair he had dreamed of touching. 

Their lips met again, gently, with more sweetness and affection than Tom could have ever imagined. He didn’t want to ruin this moment by hurrying it along. He lowered himself slowly onto Severus’ chest, narrower than his own, and felt the flutter of the man’s pulse under his palm. Severus kissed him back tentatively and Tom encouraged him, making soft noises of pleasure at each new touch between them.

This was what he’d wanted. Severus was warm, strong, and willing beneath him.

Why didn’t Tom want to take it further than these light kisses tonight?

He kissed Severus once more, tenderly, and pulled away.

“I, ah, wow,” Severus said faintly. “Why did you stop?”

“I don’t know,” Tom was forced to admit. “I don’t want to fuck up our friendship by doing something we can’t handle, I suppose.” Tom felt weak and vaguely nauseous to voice these thoughts out loud.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. But, you don’t—”

Tom couldn’t let him finish the assumption of rejection. “Salazar, no. Just, not yet.”

Severus looked relieved. “When?” he asked.

Tom closed his eyes and put his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, rubbing away his tension. “I’m not sure. I can’t start this as a reaction to you talking about your ex, though.”

“We never dated.”

“But you wanted to,” Tom insisted.

“But I wanted to,” Severus confirmed with a sigh. “Are we pretending nothing happened tonight?”

What a clever man Severus was. Tom smiled at his discretion. “Not between us, and I won’t keep you from Lucius if you allow me Abraxas.”

“Abraxas, really?” Severus grimaced. 

“I could ask the same about Lucius,” Tom pouted. “Severus, I’m being so reasonable.” He ran his hand along the other man’s arm until he could intertwine their fingers. “You won’t begrudge me one friend, will you?”

Severus shook loose his hand and tucked his lovely black hair behind his ear. “Absolutely none of that if you want to take this slow,” he warned with a slight smile that made Tom’s stomach flip. “I respect myself too much to put up with being baited.”

Tom responded seriously. “You should, Severus. I won’t tolerate being a source of embarrassment for you.”

“It’s a promise, then,” Severus vowed, and Tom saw the weight of it in his dark eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

Severus was dying to talk to Lucius privately, so that Sunday was inevitably a full-family affair. 

Narcissa was there with Draco, of course, and she was entertaining her sister Bellatrix and Bella’s husband Rodolphus. Abraxas popped in minutes after Severus arrived, as though he had been waiting for his cue. 

It was beginning to look like a set-up.

“Severus!” Lucius greeted him broadly. “So good to see you. Come, sit here with Draco. Tea?”

He found himself quickly maneuvered into the center of a sofa, between Narcissa and Abraxas, with his godson seated on his lap. This was a set-up, and all of these damned snakes now had him trapped.

Lucius sat in an armchair across from him, next to Rodolphus. Bella was on a settee by Narcissa’s side. Everyone was looking at him as Lucius spoke again.

“How was your week, cousin? Did anything interesting happen?”

Severus shot a dirty look at Abraxas, lounging sumptuously beside him. The stupid git had a knee in Severus’ space.

“You saw Tom,” Severus accused his younger cousin, who smiled indulgently in response. Severus scowled. “What did he say to you?”

Abraxas protested. “I wouldn’t betray my friend’s confidence, Severus, not even to my closest cousin.”

“I’m your only cousin,” Severus grumbled.

“Dearest by default is still dearest! Anyway, what he didn’t say was what your experience was, so, please, fill me in.”

“And the rest of you?” Severus asked the room at large.

“Only the skeleton of it all, from Abraxas,” Lucius answered dutifully.

“I heard highlights from Lucius,” Narcissa chimed in.

Bella looked bemused. “Was Tom the pretty one from the garden party?”

“I have no idea who Tom is at all, if it makes you feel better,” Rodolphus offered.

Draco babbled something about a bear and giggled simply to feel included.

This day would be absolutely miserable.

“He met my mum two weeks ago,” Severus opened, and the others in the room reacted with varying degrees of surprise. The Lestranges seemed to register surprise mostly to fit in, and Draco copied his mother’s expression.

“You did this intentionally?” Lucius looked doubtful. He was gracious with his Aunt Eileen when they rarely interacted, but she was solidly the black sheep of the family.

“Salazar, no, not intentionally. She dropped by the flat unexpectedly and let herself in—into the flat, into the conversation, into multiple relationships,” Severus moaned. His family might judge him, it was in their nature, but at least it wouldn’t change their relationship at all. “She wanted to warn me off from talking to Lily Evans, which she did, in some detail, with Tom as witness.”

The Malfoy brothers groaned. Narcissa would never lower herself to that level, so she only put a hand to her temple and closed her eyes. Bella cackled and swatted her husband on the arm, who looked even more confused about the whole situation than he had before.

“I need someone to explain the context of all this for me,” Rodolphus interjected. 

Bella jumped in readily. “Sevvie had the most embarrassing crush as a child, Rod. This Gryffindor mudblood chit—”

Severus clapped his hands over Draco’s ears while Narcissa shrilly admonished her sister: “We use the polite word for that kind in front of the child!”

The curly-haired witch rolled her eyes but complied. “Draco will grow soft, Cissy, but fine. This Gryffindor _Muggleborn_ ,” she made the word sound like a slur anyway, “who ended up marrying the Potter heir, and is friends with my blood-traitor cousin. Disgusting social climber, that one. But, oh, Sev was so smitten with her until she ditched him!”

Rodolphus nodded. “So that’s Lily Evans? There’s no shame, Severus, in some youthful indiscretion. There was this mu—Muggleborn Ravenclaw in fifth year who had a fantastic set of—”

“ _Not in front of the child!_ ” Narcissa hissed violently at her brother-in-law, and everyone shuffled as that awkward conversation was averted.

“Why did Eileen bring up Lily Evans, anyway? Tom wasn’t clear on that.” Abraxas saved them from the growing silence. Even Severus was glad to hear from that loose-lipped nuisance.

“Oh, Severus and I ran into her on Diagon over the holidays,” Narcissa chimed in, much calmer now that Draco’s innocence was no longer in jeopardy. Severus still held his godson closely, as though either of the Lestranges might unexpectedly jump in to say something crude, which was probably true.

He elaborated. “Her mum passed away recently, and Lily notified my mum so she could notify me.”

At least three voices chimed in at once. “Why?” 

“I honestly do not know,” Severus admitted.

“She’s lonely, Sev,” Narcissa said. “Didn’t you notice? She said she’s home with that child all day, her sister is a Muggle, and none of her Hogwarts friends have had children yet. Her husband’s friends won’t fill the same role. She looked like she missed you.”

That took Severus completely by surprise. “Well, fuck.”

“Language!” Abraxas laughingly admonished as Narcissa scowled, having been too late to prevent Draco from hearing. The child clapped and tried to repeat the word, but Lucius shot a temporary silencing spell at him before his mother could notice.

“So the woman is lonely and is using the tragedy of her dead mother, via your estranged mother, to get your attention?” Rodolphus distilled the situation.

“Apparently,” Severus agreed. “I hadn’t realized.” Narcissa rolled her eyes to communicate what she thought of _that_. “I’m going to have to have another conversation about Lily with Tom if she keeps trying to reach out.” This was the worst news, and Severus pitied himself indulgently.

Bellatrix nearly screeched in her excitement. “You’ve talked to that pretty Gaunt about Lily?” She looked delighted. “Severus, you said you two weren’t seeing each other.”

“Severus is seeing the Gaunt heir?” Rodolphus, the poor man, was still trying to catch up on all of the missing context. He was some fifteen years older than Severus and had no frame of reference for what was happening in the younger generation.

“Well, it’s not official yet,” Lucius started.

Narcissa finished her husband’s thought. “Though it will be within a year.”

“No, I won’t take this from you lot,” Severus threatened. “We’re both half-bloods and don’t need your old-world traditions imposing on us.”

Everyone else in the room, including the child, dismissed that claim.

“Oh!” Rodolphus was finally on the same page as everyone else. “The Gaunt heir, Tom Riddle, he’s the one everyone thought was a mu—Muggleborn until a few years ago, correct? Professor Slughorn speaks highly of him. Isn’t he doing something funny right now, like working in a shop?”

“He clerks for Borgin & Burkes, Rodolphus,” Abraxas said just to contribute something. Severus noted the wordplay but wouldn’t give his cousin the satisfaction of visibly reacting. The wastrel was already too smug.

“Roddy, let’s go shopping tomorrow,” Bella cajoled her husband. “I want to see Tom Riddle again.”

“You can’t just go bother a man where he works,” Severus attempted to protest.

“Oh, you’ll be jealous if we don’t visit you, cousin Sev?” Bella leaned forward to pat his knee patronizingly. If a knee pat could be threatening, hers was. “We’ll stop in to see you, too.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Severus, how did Tom take the discussion of your mother and Lily?” Narcissa diverted the impending disagreement. Severus mentally braced himself for a very trying day at work tomorrow and made a note to purchase something from a bakery as an apology to Tom.

“He, er,” he hesitated in answering. This audience was definitely out-of-bounds for confiding the shared kiss. He had a suspicion that Abraxas already knew, given how his younger cousin kept smirking in his direction throughout the conversation, but Severus wouldn’t betray Tom’s trust. Nor, really, did he want Cissy and the Lestranges to know what had transpired, not if it would just start more rumors about their relationship.

Everyone was looking at him expectantly, and Draco had started to fuss from the lack of attention. Rocking the boy slightly, Severus said, “Tom was understanding about my… parental difficulties. He hadn’t heard everything about the Lily Evans situation,” and Severus would not repeat those details in this company, which was entirely the wrong audience for them, “but we talked it over and came to an understanding.”

Surprisingly, Rodolphus spoke first. “Good. You shouldn’t lose the Gaunt heir over a married woman, Severus.”

Lucius quickly agreed. “I don’t want the man to be unaligned when he finally takes his Wizengamot seat.”

Severus looked to Abraxas for solidarity, and his cousin waved his hand lightly as though to dismiss the topic. It was a small comfort, but he appreciated it.

Narcissa’s clear voice drew Severus back into the conversation. “It sounds as though Tom handled himself correctly, cousin. How do you feel?”

Oh, he hated that everyone stopped their side conversations to look at him for his response. How did he feel? Severus was embarrassed to have experienced any of it. He was excited about having crossed into a new level of intimacy, and disappointed that Tom, despite initiating it, wasn’t interested in continuing that for now. He was upset at his mum for barging in when she wasn’t invited, and even more upset at her for making him feel so young and dependent again that night. He was confused about why Lily Evans would even be thinking about him, so many years after they had last talked. He wasn’t quite a mess, but Severus was just barely on top of managing his emotions.

“I’m relieved, I suppose,” was what he finally settled on for an answer. “He was going to have to meet my mum eventually. Bundling that with the Lily issue probably served to downplay both as individual concerns.”

Only Abraxas and Lucius looked at him like they knew what he wasn’t saying.


	13. Chapter 13

What was he doing here?

Tom’s sole thought in the minute between when he rang the bell for Riddle mansion and when the door was opened by a butler was to question the intelligence of his own plan. 

It was too late to back out now.

“I was hoping to speak with—with Tom Riddle,” Tom offered to the man staring at him impassively. When that garnered no immediate reaction, he added, “I’m his son,” as if that had been in doubt.

Those seemed to be the magic words, Tom thought unironically, as the butler allowed him through only after he had spoken them. It was made clear that in this house, he would not be allowed to hide from his relationship to the Riddle family. This was not a comfortable reality for Tom.

Riddle Sr. looked surprised to see him enter the same receiving parlor in which they had spoken during their last visit. He was alone, and didn’t appear to be in the middle of anything terribly urgent, so Tom took his chances and spoke.

“Father,” the word came out faintly, uncertain of its welcome, “I wanted to return your books. And I wanted to thank you for the gesture.” He held the stack of books and the bag of wizarding goods up in turn, demonstrating the honesty of his intent. He took the path of a man approaching a feral cat: approach slowly and telegraph your actions. 

Senior stood to retrieve the stack of books, placing them on his desk with clear respect. He did not make a move for the bag still on Tom’s arm.

“Thank you, Tom.” A pause. “What did you think of them?”

The older man had not asked if Tom had liked the books, or dally on the obvious question of whether he had finished them all so soon.

They were gifts from his father. Of course he liked them. Of course he finished them. Their literary merits had nothing to do with that.

“I didn’t understand this one,” Tom pulled a slim volume from the middle of the stack. If his father was a literary man, there was no use in attempting to hide from him. True knowledge was knowing what you don’t know. 

He caught a wan smile crossing his father’s face. “Ah. _The Orators_. I suppose that one does rely on having a certain context from the era.” His father did not volunteer it. For the first time in his life, Tom felt the keen, stinging sense of having been born too late to experience something profound. He couldn’t bear that it was the Muggle world that would inspire this envy.

“But how did you feel about the language?” Senior asked, breaking Tom out of his reverie. 

“The language?” he echoed, quite dumbly.

“The writing style. The phrases. The word choice. The flow and pace and rhythm of the poetry. Did you appreciate that, separate from the meaning?”

“I don’t know.” Tom considered the question. He really thought about it, but he wasn’t prepared for such a thing. He’d never thought to read for more than the story of the thing. “Wizards don’t really write poetry, at least that I’ve seen.”

Senior very visibly added another tally against magic to his mental checklist and Tom felt the shame of his ignorance. “Well.” Neither man moved. “I’ll have to fix that, then.”

Future tense. He was safe.

“I brought some things from my world,” Tom motioned to the bag again, beginning to unpack when his father did not immediately react. He needed to restore some balance to this interaction. He was the younger man, and the son, but he would not be made to answer for the literary failings of the magical populace for the next hour. That was not his burden.

First out were the sweets. Tom had bought too many: treacle fudge and chocolates and sugared butterfly wings and toffees and sugar quills in four flavors, all calculated to be unsurprising and inoffensive to eat. He had never realized how many wizarding sweets evoked wands and cauldrons, or moved on their own, or had a magical effect on the consumer, until he was buying for his father. 

“I know that Muggles—non-magical people—are still rationing sugar, but wizards are not. I thought you might want to try some of our candies.” His father looked on at the overly-generous assortment with minimal curiosity. “They’re all, er, fairly conventional. I wanted to show my appreciation for your generosity in lending me your books.” Senior nodded his understanding, but did not move to touch any of the food.

Tom moved on to the next bit quickly. Taking a stack of back-issues of both the Prophet and Witch weekly out of his bag, he separated them and laid them out on the table. Their moving photographs were on full display. This was the first real test of his father’s tolerance.

“These are two of our world’s more popular publications. The Prophet is our daily paper, and Witch Weekly is a women’s magazine. I thought you might be interested to learn more about our, uh, society.”

“The pictures move,” Senior observed flatly. 

“Yes. They move,” Tom affirmed. It seemed like the best response was validating his father’s perception.

“Is there anything else magical about these?”

“Unless you count the content, no. Just the moving pictures.”

Senior seemed to accept that, so he moved on. “Your kind have periodicals?”

“They pass as such,” Tom shrugged. “The Prophet is more biased than even the political papers in London, but it manages. Witch Weekly showcases more society and culture issues.” Senior began flipping through the magazine first, he noticed.

As a final piece, Tom brought out _Hogwarts: A History_. He’d debated the issue for a night, but settled on lending Senior his personal copy of the book, rather than purchasing a new one. If his father had entrusted his own books to Tom, he should return the gesture. Still, he held his hand on the cover for a minute before letting go. This book had been with him since he was eleven, and he counted it as his first true possession.

Senior might not know it, but handing over this book was essentially equivalent to Tom handing over a piece of his own soul.

“I, and most other witches and wizards, attended a school called Hogwarts. This book is the most comprehensive history of the institution available.” He couldn’t help himself and stroked the gold lettering of the title one more time. “I thought you might like to learn about it.”

“Your mother didn’t attend this school, did she?” His father had yet to show any sentimentality for any part of Tom, and his question held the underlying worry about just how much Junior might be like his mother. He swallowed to keep down the discomfort.

“No. I don’t believe anyone from… that side of the family attended formal schooling for a few generations, at least.” Much to his embarrassment. His entire miserable existence might have been avoided if they had.

“Mmm.” Senior let the topic lapse. “Would you be averse to meeting your grandmother today? She requested it, after last time. I won’t force it upon you.”

His father’s words felt like a test. What was the correct answer? Tom appreciated being given agency, and trusted that his choice would be respected, but wanted desperately to do whatever would most please his father. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the role of a grandmother when things with his own father were so unsteady.

“I wouldn’t mind.” Children loved their mothers, he supposed. Senior probably wanted his own mother to approve of Tom.

His grandmother, Mary Riddle, was old.

Tom could have observed that she smiled at him warmly, or that she clasped his hand with true affection when she greeted him. He could have noticed how she carried herself straight, like the musician that she was, or that she dressed in a tidy and understated style for a woman of her social position. He might have looked at her eyes and the delicate structure of her face and realized what a great beauty she still was.

Instead, he saw the slight waver of her gait and the way her arms shook, ever so faintly, with the effort of raising them to wrap around his taller frame. He embraced her back numbly, not even able to properly appreciate his first genuine hug in years, because his grandmother couldn’t be more than 70 and yet she was so visibly old.

He had forgotten how much more quickly Muggles aged. It terrified him. His father was in his forties. Why hadn’t he done this sooner? He’d had a grandfather pass already. What had he been thinking?

“Would it be alright if I returned in a week?” The words exited his mouth before he even broke his grandmother’s embrace. 

“Can you ride a horse?” His father’s non-sequitur was seemingly another test.

Thank Merlin for Abraxas Malfoy. “Yes.”

* * *

Tom was sure his riding gear looked a little odd. He’d had to transfigure it from the wizarding equivalent, which was mostly the same, but would read as slightly outdated from a Muggle perspective. He’d nicked an equestrian magazine from one of the more posh newstands in London this week in order to have a reference, but pictures could only provide so much information. He fidgeted with the cuff on his blazer as he waited for the door.

His father stepped out of the front, this Saturday, rather than allowing a butler to usher his son in. They walked across the lawn to the stables in silence, having not yet established the familiarity necessary for casual conversation. 

Tom was given the reins of a dark bay gelding by the groom. Fred had the sort of even, mild temperament of a horse for novices or the infirm, and Tom wasn’t sure whether to interpret this selection as a sign of care or an insult. He was a gentle animal, though, and Tom let him lip at his flattened palm while his father retrieved a chestnut mare for himself. Madge looked like much more of a spitfire than placid Fred.

“We’ll do a turn around the paddock to warm up and then take them out along the grounds, Tom,” his father said once they were mounted. Fred had a beautifully-even trot that Tom appreciated, having not yet gotten the hang of identifying the correct diagonal. It wouldn’t matter once they were out of the ring, but he hoped his father wasn’t the type to look for that sort of thing. He made his best guess and corrected his timing anyway, while his father urged Madge into a light canter to let loose some of her energy.

The questions started once they had lost sight of the manor. Tom Sr. asked for clarifications, definitions of terms, and explanations of context for all manner of things he had read about in the wizarding periodicals.

“What’s this quidditch, then? Your sort don’t play ordinary sports?”

“It’s played in the air, riding on broomsticks,” Tom, a non-sporting man, struggled to explain. “There’s hoops, and different types of balls, some of which move on their own. The majority of the players are offensive and defensive positions trying to put the large ball—that’s a quaffle—through the other team’s hoops. There’s one position that’s looking for a very small, winged ball, that’s worth many more points than each quaffle goal.”

“Hm. And you like this?” Senior’s manner was guarded and hard-to-read across the distance and noise of their exertion. 

“It’s not particularly my favorite past-time,” Tom said, hoping his father hadn’t been looking forward to the wizarding option for team sports as a bonding experience.

It went along like that for a period of time, sticking to frivolous topics while Senior filled in his knowledge of wizarding culture, until they tripped into much riskier territory.

“The Wizengamot, is that like our parliament?”

Apolitical Tom answered: “Essentially, yes, but much smaller. There’s very few wizards.”

Senior jumped Madge over a log near the edge of the treeline. Tom, remembering his half-seat at the last minute, hurried Fred to follow. “And how does one get a seat in that body?” he shouted back at his son.

“Some government officials have a seat while they hold the office, but otherwise, you have to be born into the right family.” Junior dreaded any follow-up on this topic.

“No luck for you, then,” his father tossed off carelessly.

Well, fuck. “Actually…”

Tom Sr. drew his mare around sharply, halting them both in the process. “The Gaunts have a seat in your parliament?” He looked more than disbelieving—he looked disgusted. Tom could only imagine what his father must think other wizards were like, if the Gaunts were part of the ruling class.

“The family does, but… it hasn’t been filled in a century, father. When my unc—when the eldest man in the family passes on, and if I took up the seat, I would be the first to do so in at least four generations.” He cursed the awkwardness of this situation. 

“Why wouldn’t you take up a seat in your own government?”

Tom grit his teeth and got through the confession. “It is not compensated.”

He heard Madge grow restless, held in one place for so long as his father’s eyes bore into his own. He wanted to blink or look away, but he wouldn’t back down from the man. He wondered if other people felt this unnerved when he stared at them.

“You haven’t told me much about yourself, son,” his father ventured.

“Nor have you said much about yourself,” he tried to deflect. It was obviously useless; they had been meeting at his father’s house each time. If nothing else, Tom could learn by observation.

“What do you do for a living, Tom?” His father’s question cut to the quick.

Tom wouldn’t avoid the answer. “I work as a clerk for an antiques shop.”

Senior kicked Madge into a mad dash, circling her around the field that they were in until both he and the horse were visibly sweating, even in the chill of the early spring weather. Tom sat, petrified, on his mount.

Worn and exhausted, his father set the pace back to the stable. They had lapsed back into silence, and Tom was unsure what, exactly, that reaction had meant. Tom Sr. dismissed the groom after their tack was hung and instructed his son to brush down Fred.

In the private and intimate space of the old stable, his father said, “Why haven’t you asked me for money?”

Tom leaned heavily against Fred’s warm chest, wrapping an arm around the horse’s neck to stroke the large animal. The horse sighed in that way that horses do, that exhalation that makes them seem more world-weary than a human could ever contemplate. He felt solidarity with the beast.

“I didn’t come here for your money, father.” No matter what Abraxas and Severus might have urged him to do, the prospect of an inheritance never mattered. The wealthy, like Abraxas and Riddle Sr., always forgot about money until its necessity was forced in their face. Tom never had that choice, but it was more than just obstinate pride that had kept him from demanding some birthright stipend from his father.

“Why are you here?”

The question pierced to the heart of the matter. How much should Junior expose? To respond with sarcasm or bitterness might be clever, but wounding this cautious and closed-off man would only hinder their relationship. To be fully honest was too frightening to contemplate, even within the safety of his own mind. What constituted a middle ground?

“I wanted to meet you.” It was a half-truth by virtue of how much more he wanted.

Something changed in his father’s eyes. They were softer around the edges, somehow, just a minor letting up of the rigid distance that the man had preserved between them. He was trying.

Senior stepped forward, running his hand along the gelding’s back until he reached his withers, just inches from Tom’s shoulder. The two men stood closer than they had ever been before. “Your grandmother,” his father said, his fingers tracing lightly in the horse’s coat, “wants to invite you to dinner, next week. If you’re amenable.”

Tom’s voice was small and young. “Yes. I would like that.”

“That’s good, then.” And the touch was brief—just the faintest clap of his father’s hand upon his shoulder, the tiniest acknowledgment of his physical person, but—it happened. It happened, and Tom was more whole.


	14. Chapter 14

The foundation of Severus’ relationship with Tom Riddle was shifting, and it was more than a single shared act of intimacy that had caused it. No, if Severus had to pinpoint the moment when he realized this was happening, it would have been when Mam walked in on them together—and didn’t that sound dirty. In reality, it was probably some time before that. Even Severus knew that he wasn’t the best at noticing that sort of thing. Or, perhaps more accurately: he wasn’t the best at not ascribing myriad more complex and sinister explanations to those sorts of things, rather than accepting the straightforward one. So, yes, Severus was positively unsteady as a result of the ground moving beneath his feet at the moment, and he knew that he shouldn’t cling and obsess as a defensive mechanism, but what were the habits of a lifetime if not unshakeable? 

In this vein, he found himself fascinated by Tom. The pull between them was mutual, but it was Severus who had started privately indulging it. Tom, from what he could gather, spent their time apart with Abraxas and now his father. The father issue seemed to particularly dominate his mind; Severus observed him acting much more distracted, these past few weeks, than he had ever been before. Tom wasn’t the type of man who tolerated distraction in others. He was clearly prone to some hypocrisy. It made Severus antsy to be competing with the man’s father for attention. A person couldn’t win out against parents unless they were a lover, and Tom had made it abundantly clear that, despite his interest and early eagerness, he wasn’t going to urge things further yet.

Oh, Merlin—did that mean Severus had to take the initiative? That was unlikely. Not with someone like Tom Riddle, where a false move could result in either verbal or physical castration, depending on his mood. Severus had had enough experience to understand the hows of it all, but he’d generally sat back and waited for someone else to make the approach. The aloofness was part of his appeal, he understood. Certainly, there wasn’t anything particularly enthralling to find once a person had peeled away the mysterious exterior. 

However, it wasn’t tenable for him to wait forever. Tom dominated too many of Severus’ thoughts already. He’d grit his teeth through the worst customers at work and think about how Tom was handling his own at that moment. Fixtures of his life were redefined around their relationship with Tom: Knockturn was where Tom worked. He thought about places relative to their distance from Tom’s flat as much as his own. He even started to prefer Tom’s pub and chippy to his own previous favorites. This was classically Severus, he knew, but it would be more work to re-examine the reasons why he took comfort in this reshaping of himself and so he avoided that entirely.

Nothing happened without reason, though, and the reason for this shift was that Tom, even if he was distracted and enforcing artificial distance between them, had loosened somewhat. Take today as an example: Tom had met Severus at the entrance to Tom’s flat with empty canvas shopping bags in his hand.

“We’re going to the market,” he explained without preamble, so Severus didn’t even break stride to turn and follow him back out.

“Wizard or Muggle?”

“Wizard is fine,” Tom said, and it was something. They could be seen, together, by people who knew them, which wasn’t nothing.

This was part of their new normal: going out instead of staying in for tea. On one memorable occasion, they had walked arm-in-arm underneath Severus’ conjured umbrella through a Muggle park on a drizzly day. Tom could have conjured his own umbrella, of course. He did not, and that was all the difference. But other than passing through, their outings had largely avoided the wizarding part of London.

Today would be something new.

Tom called Severus’ attention back to himself. “I hope you didn’t plan to leave before dinner, Severus. I was going to demonstrate the superiority of non-magical cooking for you, tonight.”

Something new, indeed. That might be the most forthright come-on that he could expect from this cautious, distracted Tom Riddle.

“No plans. Lead away, Tom,” he consented easily.

Wizarding grocers were unremarkable in a way that was entirely surprising to Severus, even years on from his integration into the wizarding world. There was really nothing about them that significantly differed from their Muggle equivalents, except that you could levitate your basket behind you without anyone batting an eye, and wasn’t that just the most striking testament to wizards’ bloody-mindedness. Well, that, and the lack of rationing. There’d been a few years, there, around the end of the war, when even wizards had to ration some things, but the smaller population and use of magic to manage the food supply ensured that while Muggles were still stretching a few ounces of lard over an entire week, wizards were back to serving the rich, hearty dishes their culture favored. 

Tom was an indiscriminate shopper in a fashion that appalled Severus. Watching the handsome man tip a random assortment of ugly potatoes into his basket, Severus couldn’t help but object. “You don’t want those. Pick out the unblemished ones instead.”

“These’re fine once they’re peeled,” Tom grumbled. He looked on mournfully as Severus reached for the lumpy, uneven specimens that he had selected, and actually pouted as Severus moved to put them back. Severus never could abide a pout on such a pretty face. He would have gladly thrown himself at Tom’s feet to make him happy in that instant; all things considered, leaving the unattractive produce alone wasn’t a painful sacrifice.

“Regular-shaped potatoes will be easier to neatly cube,” he couldn’t help chiding his friend. He’d spent too many years in the potions lab not to care about these things. 

“The grocer will bin these when they don’t sell,” Tom rejoined quietly. “The Muggles don’t have the luxury of waste, but wizards toss food all the time, now. It’s only been a couple of years since our rationing stopped and we’ve forgotten already.”

Severus snorted inelegantly. “Muggles have short memories, too. Watch them become wasteful and excessive once their society recovers.”

“Quite honestly, I look forward to it.” He hadn’t expected that response. Tom was still looking down at those awful potatoes. “I hate it when they’re better than us at something. Don’t you find it embarrassing?”

“Embarrassing how?” he asked. Stuck between both worlds as he was, Severus found it easiest to resent both of them. There was so little space in which he could be comfortable, and more often these days, that space coincided with wherever Tom Riddle was standing. 

“We’ve held ourselves apart out of this myth of superiority as much as anything else. All the purebloods say it’s fear, but when they talk about the witch burnings, they’re not really afraid. Not so many centuries on.” Tom moved on from the potatoes to the carrots, Severus trailing behind him. “That’s just a polite veneer over the idea that Muggles should really be afraid of us, you know. Us, with our magic. There was no contest between an armed Muggle and an armed wizard, hundreds of years ago. But the Muggles moved on without us, and now they really are something to fear, and we’ve got our heads up our collective arses thinking that striking them down with individual cutting curses is the height of sophistication.” As expected, he piled the strangest-looking carrots into the basket before selecting two runty heads of cauliflower, as well. The onions weren’t much better. Severus swallowed his complaints.

Tom ended up being surprisingly choosy about his lemons. “I need the zest on these,” he justified. “Limb rub doesn’t zest.”

“Anyway,” the annoyingly-pretty tosser continued speaking in a muted voice laced with a rare roughness, “in a war between the Muggle and magical worlds, I would bet on the Muggles, and that rankles. We’re all fat, happy, and complacent, while they’re lean, hungry, and ambitious. I wish it were the other way ‘round.”

“You have this infernal habit of making it difficult to disagree with your argument, do you know that?” Severus teased his friend with as much levity as he would ever show in public.

“Perhaps I just cannot bear to live without your approval, Severus,” Tom jabbed right back. His smile was fleeting and precious. “I only have the rabbit and butter left on my list,” he said. “Would you grab the dairy while I head to the butcher counter?”

They met up again in line for the till, where Tom flirted outrageously for a discount. “No one else will take this tosh off your hands, Jacob,” he insisted as he leaned in that boneless way against the counter. Jacob, Severus noted with a scowl, blushed and cut 30% off the cost of the produce. He took Tom’s arm jealously as they walked out. 

Back at Tom’s flat, the two men laid out the ingredients for dinner. It was still early, but Tom appeared to be planning a stew. “Can I help?” Severus offered, more out of politeness than a sense of surety.

Tom gave him an appraising look that lingered on Severus’ hands longer than necessary, and oh, he burned under that gaze. Apparently these hands were judged sufficient, because Tom nodded. “You can peel and chop, but if I catch you binning anything, I’ll put you out with the rubbish, too.”

“The scraps, surely,” Severus cajoled. 

“Peels in the pail,” Tom intoned as he rattled a metal bucket on the counter. His wordplay made Severus smile. “The hag next door keeps chickens.”

Oh, right. _Knockturn_. Maybe it was as much the mentality as the rent prices that kept Tom here. For the first time in his life, Severus accepted that he might, actually, have become middle-class.

Damned Malfoys and their money.

Severus’ knife work had always been exquisite, and he proudly turned over his cubed vegetables to Tom for approval once they were done. Tom, who had efficiently, if crudely, broken down the rabbit, chuckled as he held up matching cubes of carrot and potato.

“It’s going to feel like we’re eating the tinned stuff, these are so regular.”

“Hush. You shouldn’t be able to afford me as your sous chef.”

“I shouldn’t be able to afford much of anything,” Tom said more charitably than was really necessary. “But charm will make up for where money lacks, I’ve found.”

Severus felt warm, and his lingering jealousy over the grocer evaporated. “I could be persuaded to stay around.”

“What do you think tonight is, Severus?” Tom asked solicitously. “Persuasion.” He let the implication hang in the air between them for a beat too long to be a casual pause. “You’ll happily volunteer to help me for every meal once you’ve tasted my cooking.”

Severus barked out a laugh, and although he knew it was not one of his more attractive features, Tom smiled as if the sound was pleasant. “What next, then?”

“Keep me company while I brown the meat, that’s all.” Tom had a large, enameled iron pot on the flame and Severus watched as a spoonful of fat melted within it. Rabbit pieces went in, and Tom minded them all manually, turning each bit after a few minutes of browning. 

It was such a different art than that of potion-making. Severus was a master—or, well, on his way to being recognized as one—at that, but cooking had never called to him in the same way. He could cook. He was too stubbornly self-sufficient not to have picked up the skill. But something about food eluded him. He wasn’t a man to religiously follow recipes, no, but he did feel unjustifiable frustration that precision wasn’t as valuable in the kitchen. Some things required it, certainly. He’d heard pastry was a particularly finicky discipline, and if he had more of a sweet tooth and an interest in domestic hobbies, perhaps it would be a good fit.

However, watching Tom was eye-opening. The man seemed almost careless with the way he tossed unmeasured amounts of salt into the pot—far more salt than Severus would have used—as though he either had an instinctual command of the process or wasn’t truly bothered by the possibility of failure. If he had to compare it to anything, it would be the casual confidence of Sirius Black, but instead of coming across as infuriating, this was downright alluring.

Merlin, Salazar, and Circe, Severus was no better than one of Black’s chits. 

With that terrifying thought in hand, he came back to himself in time to see Tom tuck the covered pot into the oven. He must have missed out on a few steps along the way.

“That’s it, then?”

“For the next couple of hours, at least, I let all of that mellow. I do have to make the curd before I take a break, however.”

Lemon curd, despite its viscosity and color being not so far off from that of a typical potion, was a similarly baffling endeavor. 

“I just don’t understand,” Severus complained, “why the eggs don’t curdle. Lemon juice _and_ direct heat like that—you should be stirring the sweetest scrambled eggs right now.”

“Some people do prefer a bain-marie, but I’ve never found it necessary if you watch the flame and stir constantly,” Tom said, clearly satisfied and in his element while he dropped irregularly-cubed butter into the pan. Severus’ eye twitched as he watched the chunks melt at different rates.

“There is a more consistent way to do this, and you’re deliberately and knowingly choosing the riskier one?” It was galling. He imagined explaining to a customer that the sleeping draughts were out of stock today because he’d decided not to follow best practices. The concept made him shudder.

“It works for me,” Tom shrugged. “And I strain it after.” He waved a hand elegantly at the aforementioned tool, set over a bowl. “Any curds that did form would be left out of the final product.”

That final product looked sinfully good as Tom spooned it into his premade tart shells to set. Severus grabbed the spoon once Tom was done. His suggestive licking was only somewhat an act; Tom really did have a talent for cooking.

“Careful, Severus,” Tom spoke evenly, but his eyes were alight with mirth. “You might find that my risky methods leave you with a mouth full of curdled egg.”

“You know it’s perfect, you prat.”

“Mmm,” Tom’s eyes seemed to fixate on his mouth. Severus’ breath caught. “You’ve—” he started saying, but cut himself off partway through and leaned in, instead, until his face was a hair’s breadth from Severus’ own. Tom’s tongue darted out, obscenely pink, to lick Severus’ lower lip slowly. “You had curd,” he explained breathlessly.

They were still so close, Tom leaning awkwardly forward as his hips rested back against the counter, and yet he made no further move. Just as he said he wouldn’t. The bloody tease.

It was now or never, and Severus wasn’t sure what momentary idiocy possessed him when he reached around Tom and hefted him onto the counter, then pulled that pretty face down to his own for a searing kiss. The both tasted faintly of lemon and sugar, and beneath that, the masculine muskiness that their previous, chaste kiss had only hinted at. Gods, but this man was intoxicating.

Severus, emboldened by Tom’s receptiveness, continued to press forward. He ran his hands through the other man’s short hair and pulled at his hips, encouraging him to wrap his legs around Severus. They were closer than they had ever been before. Tom was deliciously fit, all warm, smooth muscle beneath Severus’ searching hands. It was too much to process. Tom’s quiet whimpers, every time Severus tugged his hair or thrust his tongue into the man’s mouth, were unreal. 

He wanted to carry Tom off, barbarically, like the princess earned by defeating a dragon. He wanted to lay the man down on his grotty couch and claim him as his own. He never wanted to share this beautiful creature with the world again. They could live off of Malfoy money in Severus’ own den of iniquity, and Tom could read and cook and fuck, all for Severus’ pleasure, if only he thought Tom might have been willing.

However, the conversation after their first kiss stuck with him, even as he scraped his teeth across Tom’s lip and edged his fingers under his shirt. 

Neither of them wanted this to become an awkward pity-fuck. 

So Severus wouldn’t push further, not today. He pawed at the other man as they continued kissing, exploring how Tom shuddered as Severus’ hands ran down his sides. He let his fingers sneak underneath the placket of Tom’s shirt, finding bare skin there and stroking it lightly. Tom rewarded this with deeper moans and tightened his legs around Severus’ waist, pressing his arousal into Severus’ belly so that it was undeniable. That, finally, made Severus groan, and he bucked his own erection into Tom to leave no doubt that it was reciprocated. Merlin, he wanted more.

He wouldn’t take it, though. Not yet. If Tom wanted to go slow, Severus would snog him soundly, until the man was whining and boneless and utterly disheveled and desperate to go further. Judging by his panting, stuttering breath, Tom was already there. With a final, filthy thrust of his hips as he licked Tom’s jaw, Severus withdrew. 

Tom’s eyes were glassy, his hair a mess, and his shirt half-loosened from his trousers. He looked, if not quite well-fucked, absolutely wanton, sitting on his kitchen counter with his legs wrapped around another man. Severus smirked.

“I shouldn’t distract you from your cooking. Is it about time to check the stew?”

Tom groaned and leaned back, slouching against the wall as he unwrapped himself from Severus.

“You have no idea how little I care about cooking, right now,” he complained. It was endearing, really, to have brought Tom Riddle down to baser human communication like whinging. 

“I was promised a demonstration of the superiority of non-magical cooking, and I would like to collect on that.” The smirk never left his face as Tom grumbled and straightened himself. They were technically the same age, but in a moment like this, Severus allowed himself to feel like the big, bad seventh year toying with the pretty underclassman. 

Dinner was divine, to Tom’s credit. Rabbit stew and lemon curd tarts were humble, homely fare of exactly the sort that Severus’ mum never made when he was little. He appreciated them more for knowing they couldn’t have been the foods of Tom’s childhood, either. There was something deeply meaningful about taking that missed experience into their own hands as adults, and there was no person Severus would rather have shared it with than the maddening, misfit Slytherin mess that was Tom Riddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! I want to thank you all for helping this story hit 100 kudos—that’s incredible for my selfish, AU romance between two prickly men. You’re all fantastic for making this happen.
> 
> I’m going to take about a week off from publishing new chapters on this story. My semester is ending soon, which means I’ve got to grade final projects and homework. I’d like to take the time to build up more of a buffer in unpublished chapters for this (I’m down to only being two chapters ahead of what you see!). Thanks for your patience and understanding. ❤️ I’m leaving off on a fairly happy chapter for this Hanukkah season, I hope you enjoyed it!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thanks for your patience, dear readers, through my week off. I’ll probably be a little less rigorous about posting a new chapter every other day through the winter break, fyi. For now, please enjoy that I’ve built up my backlog a bit.

Abraxas Malfoy was not the obvious choice of wizard to introduce to your Muggle father. However, he had practically volunteered himself for the job when he wrote that letter admonishing the man, some months ago, so it was a reluctant Abraxas that accompanied Tom to his father’s home for Saturday dinner. 

Tom had written ahead to notify his father that he would be bringing a guest, of course. He wasn’t going to be rude about it. He just couldn’t stomach facing his father and grandmother alone for hours with nothing but food between them. What if he ate the wrong way?

And that was how he hit upon bringing Abraxas. Abraxas knew how to eat with wealthy people because he was a wealthy person. Plus, Abraxas wasn’t allowed to say no to Tom, not when it really mattered. That was their dynamic. He wasn’t the type to be embarrassingly curious about Muggles, which was important, and he also wasn’t the type to care enough to make a sport of insulting them. No, Abraxas would use the correct fork, make polite conversation, and gossip at Tom about the whole thing later. 

Mary Riddle—and how was he supposed to address her, anyway? Grandmother? Mary? Tom settled on Grandmother when she wrapped both him and Abraxas in an affectionate, if restrained, hug as a greeting. Grandmother was apparently more than happy to have the extra guest.

“I don’t get the pleasure of hosting many young men,” she said with a smile as they were seated. “Tom—your father—has kept such a private life since you were born.”

Both Toms turned scarlet at the gross glossing-over of Senior’s marriage, though only the eldest spoke. “Mother, don’t,” he said in that mix of embarrassment and conviction that plagues children of any age when they attempt to stand up to their parents. It humanized Senior, and both wizards shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“You have, Tom, and you almost refused to meet this young man, too. I understand that I have to thank you, Abraxas—did I say that correctly? Good—for helping connect my son and grandson. The Riddles are in your debt.” She smiled fondly at the blond, who looked pleased as punch at that pronouncement. If Malfoys appreciated anything, it was other people’s debts.

“It was really no trouble, Mrs. Riddle,” Abraxas lied charmingly. Tom knew that any collaboration between Severus and Abraxas was at least some amount of trouble. “Tom and I go way back.”

“Yes, you both attended the same school? Hogwarts? What a… unique name. My son was telling me about it.”

Junior’s eyes snapped to Senior’s, and the older man turned faintly pink as he was caught out. Tom continued staring at his father until Riddle Sr. finally spoke. “I’ve been reading the book you lent me,” he said evenly.

“And what do you think?” Tom asked hoarsely. It was a dumb question, but what else was he supposed to say? He was normally the person who spoke in vague statements; he wasn’t prepared to be at the other end of them. Tom supposed this was the downside of having a family—everyone used the same tricks to win, and by virtue of being the youngest, he would consistently come last.

Senior responded somewhat dismissively. “It’s an interesting history, but the education seems lacking.”

Grandmother stepped in to soften the blow. “What your father means,” she shot him a look, “is that there are some curious oversights in magical schooling. However, I’m sure there’s sound cultural reasons for the lack of writing and arts.”

Abraxas inserted himself once again, looking earnestly curious—or, as earnest and as curious as the man could manage. On his aristocratic face, this translated to slightly-arched brows. “We write essays in all of our classes, of course. Wizards don’t train for art until after our primary schooling is complete. The level of magical maturity needed to create our portraiture is too high for most children to even attempt.”

“So your paintings move, as well?” Grandmother Mary asked politely.

“Oh, yes. Everything we paint is animated,” he responded blithely. 

Senior fingered his fork anxiously, apparently considering whether to respond. With a steadying intake of breath, he said, “I’ll show you both some art in my study after dessert. You might be interested to see what us ordinary people have been painting recently, if you’re used to moving portraiture.” Tom wasn’t sure what that meant, honestly. He expected that Riddle Manor, like any wizarding manor, only had portraits of old dead relatives.

“You can see the art in my music room, too, if you would like,” his grandmother volunteered. “My son and I prefer quite different styles.”

“Do you play an instrument, Grandmother?” Tom asked this with as much warmth as he could manage. Judging by Abraxas’ slightly curled lip, it had been barely passable.

“Mother plays the piano beautifully,” his father cut in, somewhat defensively. Tom attempted to switch his expression from that of passive neutrality to something friendlier, despite the nerves in his stomach demanding he stick with his safe, protective inscrutability. 

Grandmother waved her hand airily. “You’re still such a flatterer, son, but I’ll play something if my grandson wants to hear it.”

“I would love to,” he smiled. Abraxas’ eyes flicked in his direction briefly; this attempt at fondness had been more successful.

Senior directed them back to an earlier topic, now that their post-dinner plans were settled. “How does Hogwarts handle grammar and spelling in subject-area essays if there is no general writing education at the school?”

Wonderful. He was still stuck on the insufficiencies of wizardom. Abraxas and Tom looked at each other. Tom raised an eyebrow to indicate that Abraxas was the expert on wizarding culture. Abraxas shook his head slightly to suggest that this was Tom’s family. Tom pouted minutely to beg for help. Abraxas twitched his nose to show that Tom had already used up his favors, where Riddle Sr. was concerned.

Sighing, Tom conceded. “I assume the professors correct a student’s writing, if it’s bad enough. You’re expected to be a proficient writer coming in, I think, and learn by example from the textbooks.” Merlin, he knew how bad this sounded. Of course eleven-year-olds weren’t universally-great writers. It felt like just another example of his father laying the shortcomings of the wizarding world at his feet, though.

“That might be sufficient for technical writing,” Senior surprised him by saying, “but what of creative writing? Tom, you’ve said before that poetry isn’t particularly common among your type.” He looked to Abraxas for confirmation, who nodded indifferently. “What about prose? Fiction writing? Novels? Even a history or a biography would necessitate something other than technical skill. Your subjects sound like the equivalent of our scientific disciplines. What are the analogues to our literature and language fields?”

“I suppose I would consider those leisure activities,” Abraxas said.

Tom furrowed his brow but agreed. “Magic is…” he tried to explain the ineffable essence of their world, but the words were slow in coming. His grandmother looked interested, but his father looked impatient, and he surged forward with his disconnected thoughts. “It’s important to learn how to control and use our magic. Most witches and wizards need the structure they learn in school to wield it safely.” He barreled through before his father’s flinch could register with anyone else. “Compared to the possibility of improperly-implemented spellwork, grammar just never seemed as important.”

“Is that how you feel, son?” His father’s tone was just this side of chilly.

Abraxas stepped in, and Tom could have kissed the tosser, despite his words. “Tom was a top swot, sir. You don’t have to worry about his ability in any academic subject.” He really could have done without being called a swot tonight, and he groaned slightly, but the blond git wasn’t finished. “Why, Tom used to run a bit of a racket for the students in our house, didn’t you?” The blond’s grin was disconcerting. “He’d edit our essays for recompense. Was it a galleon for an essay?”

“It was a sliding scale,” he bit out, looking down at his plate.

“I didn’t know that!” Abraxas’ voice was too loud, and was Grandmother laughing? “Was I at the high or the low end of that scale?”

“The only person who paid more than you was Mulciber,” Tom spat back. This was so embarrassing. He’d only started the scheme to have extra spending money, and Severus had cornered the market on DADA and potions tutoring already, which left Tom with the less-glamorous task of essay revision.

“Oh, Mulciber would have deserved it.” Abraxas whispered the next part conspiratorially: “That boy was a right berk. A skirt-chaser, pardon me, Mrs. Riddle, who wouldn’t have opened a textbook for anything. His work was always terrible.”

“Riddled with spelling errors,” Tom punned. Punned! Even his father let loose a small smile at that. Junior loosened up at reminiscing with Abraxas. “He never knew when to use a possessive apostrophe. I tried correcting it, but hear this: his professors realized Mulciber would never have been able to manage that, and they made him redo the assignments! I had to leave in the grammatical errors for his essays.” He smirked. “It was worth the two galleons, though.”

“I was nothing like that,” Abraxas adopted an air of affront. “Why did I have the second-highest rate?”

“You were easily my most annoying customer.” Tom rolled his eyes. “You never needed more than a handful of edits, but you would demand I do three passes over the damn thing.”

Abraxas’ eyes sparkled, and he addressed the family. “Tom wouldn’t talk to me until I started paying for his editing. It’s how we became friends, really, so those were galleons well-spent.” Turning back to Tom, he added, “We wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been so thorough.”

“I wouldn’t talk to you? You called me a m—”

The blond cut off that line of discussion before it could progress any further. “Well! What a lovely dinner. Could we impose on you just a little longer and see those paintings you mentioned?”

Tom kicked his friend under the table but let it go. This probably wasn’t the time to get into blood politics and discrimination with the people who were indirectly responsible for his childhood bullying. Perhaps that never had to come up.

Their small group retreated to Senior’s study, where the patriarch offered after-dinner brandy. Junior refused; he wasn’t much for drink. Abraxas seemed surprisingly pleased with the liquor, which was a relief.

“I enjoy the Surrealist movement most,” Riddle Sr. opened as he stood in front of a canvas. “However, there are some politics around the naming of artistic movements, and there are a few similar styles from overlapping periods, so I won’t claim to be a purist.” None of this made any sense to Tom, but he let the words wash over him as though they did.

Frankly, the work in front of him was baffling. The setting was a hazy, nearly-pastel dreamscape, but the figures in the picture made no sense. Disembodied but bloodless limbs and faces floated through the space, juxtaposed with nonsensical arrangements of inanimate objects and awkwardly-proportioned animals, all rendered with photorealistic detail. It looked… messy. There seemed to be no reason for why these things had been painted together, in this arrangement, and it made Tom feel unmoored. 

Abraxas seemed to have no hesitation in voicing his confusion. “I don’t see how this would move at all. If that arm, there, was animate, would it be flopping about? Floating through the air? Tom, imagine if it could drift in and out of other paintings. The horse, too, would be downright disturbing in motion. I rather see why wizards don’t paint like this.”

Senior looked at the painting fondly. “This is certainly not made with the goal of just being pretty.”

“Truthfully, my great-uncle’s portrait proves that pretty isn’t always our end goal, either,” Abraxas responded.

“But is portraiture the main subject of wizarding art?” his father asked.

“Portraiture and still life, yes. Our portraits don’t just move, they also talk. They act like the subject did in life,” Abraxas explained adroitly. Tom was impressed by how well he managed to not make assumptions around the Muggles.

Tom Sr.’s eyes narrowed. “What happens if the subject of a portrait was never alive? What if they were a construction of the artist’s?”

To his credit, Abraxas didn’t stutter or stumbled over his words. He merely blinked his surprise. “I suppose they wouldn’t talk, then.”

Grandmother Mary, who, until now, had been letting the men discuss Surrealism, stepped back into the conversation at this point. “So your type only paint existing people?”

“The portraits in my family manor are all of family,” Abraxas admitted. “I believe the paintings held by most families are the same. At Hogwarts, there’s a larger variety of works, but they do tend to depict former students and professors of the school.”

Tom hadn’t really thought about that before. All of their art was of people, and, in particular, of specific individuals. He thought there might have been one or two silent portraits of unnamed shepherds around the castle, but he couldn’t be sure.

That was somewhat strange. Tom had sketched as a child, the same as most children—at least, he thought. Had wizarding children drawn like he did? He’d dropped the habit when he started learning to use a quill, which was a messy endeavor. Maybe wizards didn’t have the soft graphite pencils with which he’d grown up. Tom had never thought to ask.

He was suddenly overtaken by a need to see more. “Grandmother, can you show us your favorite paintings?”

She happily led their little group down another hall to her music room, dominated by a large piano. His father looked at the instrument fondly; Tom would have to ask his grandmother to play sometime, if not tonight.

“The Impressionists were more popular in my generation,” she said as she stopped them in front of a painting showing an everyday scene: a couple walking through a city market. The colors tended toward pastel but were nonetheless striking, and the figures reflected the blue light of the sky. Neither figure had a defined face. “I love how they used light.”

Indeed. Tom noticed a few more paintings hanging around the room, and they all captured some form of serenity. They showed quiet moments of individuals or crowds engaged in mundane activities. He noticed that his grandmother didn’t seem to choose landscapes. They were pretty, and calming, and he liked them… but the strangeness of his father’s art called to him more.

“These are lovely,” he complimented Grandmother Mary, noting that Abraxas seemed to agree with unexpected fervency. There might yet be wizarding interest in Muggle art. Turning to his father, he addressed the man directly: “I appreciated your collection, as well. I’m beginning to understand why you are concerned about magical education.”

Senior briefly clasped his son’s upper arm in a gesture of approval. “I’m glad that you do. You’ll just have to learn.” Turning to his mother, he entreated her, “Mother, you did promise us a song before the boys have to leave.” The boys—applying such an endearment to two wizards was nothing if not a sign of progress. “Would you?”

Grandmother Mary smiled and agreed. She played something classical that Tom couldn’t name, but he knew he’d head before, back at Wool’s, when the matron would bring out the gramophone on Saturday evenings and let the children listen to music so long as they sat quietly. It hadn’t been his favorite activity, he would always prefer the first of the month, when Wool’s would get its donations and a new book might come in, but he had been fond of any escape from the usual drudgery of the place. Listening to his grandmother play this nameless song, watching the way her hands moved so smoothly and his father looked on with such admiration, he felt a mix of loss for what he had not gotten, as a child, and wholeness for what he would now get to have, in his present life.

It could be said that Tom Riddle initiated the embrace between himself and his grandmother, as they said their goodbyes. He certainly shook his father’s hand. And, until Abraxas started smirking at his friend, Tom might have even been smiling.


	16. Chapter 16

When Severus settled into his sofa that week, rather than the usual armchair, Tom sat next to him. He watched with mild consternation as his companion sighed and let his head fall against the back of the sofa.

“Rough week, then?” Severus asked mildly.

“I think I might hate the wizarding world,” Tom said without preamble. Severus sucked in air through his teeth. “What the fuck are we doing with ourselves, Severus? Fighting to be top of the mud pile?”

Severus snorted at his friend’s sarcastic tone. “You’ll have to explain a bit more than that.”

Tom rubbed the bridge of his nose then swept his hand back through his hair, clearly agitated, and Severus worried about what could have upset him so much. When Tom spoke again, he had his eyes closed and his hands splayed out across the sofa in a pose of defeat. “I’m raving. I’m just tired. Ignore what I said.”

That wouldn’t stand. Sensing that now was a time for action, Severus crept his hand across the cushion and interlaced his fingers with Tom’s own, open palm touching open palm. He gave a tentative squeeze and held it until he felt Tom reciprocate.

“Did something happen with Abraxas?” he asked.

“Abraxas is fine,” Tom dismissed. “It’s not him. It’s not one person. It’s nothing.” He began to draw back, to collect himself, but Severus stopped him.

“Would you like me to tell you why I hate the wizarding world?” he offered seriously. Tom stared, unblinking, in that disconcerting way of his that made Severus feel like he was being evaluated. There was no tickle of legilimency in his mind; Tom was not magically invading him. He was just… waiting, waiting for Severus to speak.

Severus tapped his fingers against Tom’s hand, fidgeting under the other man’s gaze. “It’s the unfulfilled promise. Not an entitlement—don’t misunderstand me—but I suppose you have to know that Mam raised me on stories of it. She told me about Hogwarts and Slytherin house, showed me magic when Da wasn’t around. Magic was going to cure all of my ills. Magic earned me my first friend in Lily Evans. Did you know we met before school?” Tom shook his head but stayed silent, eyes still searching for something. “I came upon her performing accidental magic when we were kids. I thought I was the luckiest boy in the world when that happened. Forgive my idiocy,” Severus smiled despite himself, “I was a child. I don’t think I lost my hope until seventh year.”

“Not fifth or sixth?” Tom asked quietly. Severus didn’t need more detail to understand what his friend was hinting at.

“Not then, no. It took some time to sink in. I guess I thought that the Marauders might have stopped when Lily and I split up, or the rest of the school might move past the name-calling, or even that I might find a potions apprenticeship and establish a new purpose for myself.” That had been a difficult moment in his life. He had watched someone as unmotivated as Rosier receive job offers in the autumn of their seventh year based on name recognition alone, while he had been the best potioneer of his age for easily a century and Slughorn hadn’t offered any help with making connections in the field. It still stung. “For me, giving up meant accepting Lucius’ offer to reconnect with my wizarding family, eventually leading to me becoming the Prince family heir. I took Malfoy patronage after I graduated, as well. I hope you’re enjoying the fruits of my resignation.”

Tom gave him a tired smile, but it was enough to know that he was following along. He’d stopped staring so intensely, at least. Severus eased his friend down along the sofa, urging him to lie across Severus’ chest and lap as they propped their feet upon the coffee table. “It’s more comfortable than your sofa, you have to admit.” He moved to entwine their hands again in this new position. 

“Mam, Da and I were never comfortable in the Muggle world. It was a hard life, but magic promised me an endpoint. Mam promised me an endpoint. Magic changed fuck all, it’s still impossible to do more than survive unless you’ve got the right name and money, and I’m upset that I ever believed otherwise. Her magic never saved her—or me—from Da.”

He let out a breath and hugged the weight of Tom closer to his chest. It did not escape Severus’ attention that Tom had started pursuing him after he’d settled both money and name, but he couldn’t bring himself to resent his friend. Their situations were mirror images. It would be hypocritical, and more than that, it would hurt too much.

Tom turned his head to lay his cheek against Severus’s collar. When he spoke, his breath tickled the underside of Severus’ jaw. “Is that why you dislike your mother?”

“Yes,” it was easy to admit, “among other accumulated slights.” 

“She may have been hopeful that it would work out for you. Her stories might not have been intentionally providing false hope,” Tom said cautiously. Severus could feel the concern in his friend’s words, but he closed himself off to the sentiment.

His response was slightly bitter. “I would rather she’d been honest with me. Maybe I could have been a Ravenclaw and gotten along with less bullying, if she had warned me that a poor half-blood would have a difficult time in Slytherin.“

Tom’s low chuckle reverberated through them both. “Houses breed true, Severus.”

“How much of that is self-fulfilling?” he challenged.

“I certainly had no choice, and I was hardly forewarned,” Tom countered.

“You have a founder’s blood.” It was obvious, but Severus felt the need to say it. “Who knows what old magic binds you to Slytherin?”

“Nothing that impressive, I assure you. I admit, I think any child coming from Wool’s would have been a Slytherin by Hogwarts standards. We all fought to rise above the muck to which we were condemned, and any one of us would have been tossed in the snake pit by that biased old hat. Ambition, cunning, determination, self-preservation—orphans who make it to eleven in a hole like Wool’s have those in excess.”

“I do believe that,” Severus reassured, running his hand through Tom’s hair. It was fair game; Tom had already messed with it. There was something appealingly devious about tangling his fingers in that perfect hair. He felt Tom settle into his embrace more comfortably and his heart raced.

“You’re right, though. Magic didn’t fix anything,” Tom said. His tone of voice wasn’t quite defeated, but there was a note of disappointment in it, as though Tom hadn’t wanted to hold this opinion. Severus ran his fingers down Tom’s neck and along his collarbone soothingly. “Why is it that everyone around us acts like it could?”

“If you’re asking earnestly,” Tom nodded into Severus’ chest at the question, “you must have noticed that the families that live entirely in the wizarding world, regardless of blood status, never fall below genteel poverty.”

Tom frowned and disagreed. “That was not true of the Gaunts.”

“You’re right,” Severus admitted. “Let me try again: families that live entirely as wizards and stay connected to society. That would leave out the werewolves who go feral, too, and anyone else who tries to make it on their own.”

“Go on,” Tom urged now that they were in agreement.

“I think our world is so small, incestuous, and generationally wealthy that it’s difficult for even a half-blood to be too distantly related to a generous relative. Someone will get you a job at the Ministry or help you pay for your apprenticeship, or you’ll marry into a family that could.” He squeezed Tom’s hand again. “We both got those offers.”

“You took yours,” Tom said with the slightest hint of accusation.

“I had given up on hoping for anything more fulfilling out of a life lived on my own merits, remember?” Severus rolled his eyes. His friend was so obviously hung up on the patronage issue, and it was a tiny bit annoying to consistently be reminded of that. Seeking to divert even one more barbed comment, Severus asked: “Are you ready to talk about why you were so worked up about the magical world?”

“It’s not the magic,” Tom defended himself.

“So you’re not running off to be a Muggle, then,” Severus deadpanned. “That’s reassuring.”

Tom snorted at the poor joke. “It’s the culture, of course. What else would it be? Magic was my chance to get out of a life on the streets of London, and I wrapped myself up in everything I could in order to belong better. Wizarding academics, wizarding job, wizarding leisure, and in all those areas, the message is that Muggle is worse. Muggles are backward, brainless creatures. Wizards are elevated and virtuous. Not good, mind you—we know too well that witches and wizards are flawed—but the collective was supposed to hold the highest form of knowledge available to humanity. All innovative thought, excepting perhaps creative new brutalities, happened in the wizarding world.” 

“I’ve never really thought about that,” Severus admitted. He had taken so naturally to brewing and defense that any non-wizarding passions had fallen by the wayside over the years. Mrs. Evans had taught him the fundamentals of piano, when he was a child, and he’d enjoyed it. Of course, when he and Lily split up, that ended as well.

Tom shifted slightly, apparently uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “I hadn’t, either.”

“What changed?”

“Father,” he admitted honestly. That was a rarity—Tom was many things, but he rarely spoke so plainly. Even when he was telling the straight truth, and not evading it with cleverness and sarcasm, he liked to say things to make himself sound intelligent. It worked, of course. Severus had never met someone smarter than Tom; it was just one of the reasons he was so attractive. This was a shift, though, no other way about it.

“Father has been showing me Muggle books and art, and not just old stuff. He’s been sharing recent work. It’s not what I expected, Severus. I think—oh, Salazar—I think I was holding onto a child’s understanding of the Muggle world. Fuck, I don’t want to be saying this, but I feel like I was the first-year arguing with the professor because I read ahead in my textbook.”

Tom flipped over so that he was facing Severus, still lying on top of him, and buried his head into Severus’ chest. He seemed to want to block out the world. Severus brought his arms around Tom, stroking down his back in a slow gesture of reassurance. What a fucking world—in the past six months, Tom Riddle had gone from barely having exchanged two words with Severus to becoming his friend, possibly more, and seeking comfort in his arms. Severus wasn’t yet convinced that this was anything more than a fever dream, but holding the man close, now, he hoped fervently that it wouldn’t end quite yet.

Thoughts like that were always bad omens.

“Even Abraxas seemed to enjoy my family’s art collection. If someone as meticulously pure as him could find Muggle work interesting—”

“Abraxas?” Severus’ blood went cold.

Tom looked up at him strangely. “Abraxas accompanied me last week. We had dinner with my grandmother and father.”

“You asked Abraxas.” Severus’ arms fell away from the man sprawled over him, and he felt Tom try and pull one back. He shrugged off the attempt.

“Abraxas is an old friend. He made polite conversation,” Tom said in a pacifying tone, having apparently picked up on Severus’ withdrawal.

It didn’t work. “He made polite conversation,” Severus mocked. “And I would have been a crass embarrassment?”

He was projecting, he knew. This was how things went: Severus disguised his hurts by accusing the other person of wrongdoing. If he had been less upset at the moment, he might have even seen the pattern.

Unfortunately, Tom’s reaction wasn’t much better. He shoved himself up at Severus’ harsh tone, pushing away from their comfortable intimacy. “I wouldn’t have assumed so, but if you’re behaving like this, perhaps it was for the best that I invited Abraxas.” He paced away from the sofa, his height dominating the room as Severus slumped lower in his seat. “I didn’t realize you were so envious of my friendships, Severus.”

“I wouldn’t have to be if you didn’t insist on this pretension that we are just friends, Tom,” Severus spat back cruelly. He knew Tom wanted to wait. He knew they were progressing slowly. Right now, that all seemed insufficient in the face of his jealous anger. “Or was that it? You would be too ashamed to bring a male partner around to your father’s home?”

“I barely know the man!” Tom was shouting, now, his hands pulling at his hair. “Forgive me for wanting to ease him into my life. Merlin help me if I wanted to save you from an uncomfortable situation!” Then, surprising Severus thoroughly, Tom apparated out of the flat from where he stood.

How fucking rude! The nerve of that man, to not even apparate from the hall—Severus screamed and kicked over his coffee table.

He thought Tom might come back to finish the argument. Severus knew better than to expect an apology, but an unfinished argument itched. When ten minutes had passed without interruption, Severus dropped his head into his hands and allowed his breathing to return to normal.

Severus had really bollocksed that one.


	17. Chapter 17

Buggering shitfuck. 

“Luce!” Severus shouted into the green flames of his floo. “Lucius, I’ve fucked it all to hell.”

On the other end, Lucius Malfoy allowed himself one moment to put his hand to his forehead and breathe before giving Narcissa the look that indicated she should take her leave for the evening. She headed out of his office wordlessly; this would be a long night.

Severus wasn’t drunk yet. He hadn’t started crying, so he wasn’t drunk yet. He had opened the booze, he had a glass dangerously held in hand—far too close to the flames of the floo, which were still flames, after all—but by some miracle he’d managed to call his cousin before things could get too far out of hand.

Tom must be a good influence, he thought to himself, and then he did want to cry. He wasn’t drunk enough, yet, so he took a swig from his bloody cut-crystal Malfoy-money tumbler and hoped it would hit him soon. Tom wasn’t here, Severus had blown it all to bits, and he was never coming back.

“Severus, you’ll have to use your words if you want me to help,” Lucius drawled through the flames. Poncy git, keeping his composure at a time like this.

“I got upset with Tom and he left,” he moaned in reply.

Lucius, master of etiquette, asked for the particulars. “How did he leave? Was it a calm walk out with a ‘We’ll talk about this later?’ Did he storm off?”

“He apparated out of my flat from where he stood, Luce.” It was still galling.

“That’s galling,” Lucius agreed. “The very height of rudeness. He could have at least walked out the door first.” He really could have. Severus was upset with himself, but who apparated out of your sitting room? Tom was at some fault. Severus was at more fault, though.

“I pushed him on something stupid,” he admitted to his cousin. “I shouldn’t’ve.”

“Quit mumbling, Severus. And put your drink away,” Lucius scolded in a manner that was eerily reminiscent of his own mother, which was probably why he hastened to follow directions. He hoped the muted thump of him stumbling over the upturned coffee table didn’t transmit through the floo. When he was settled before the fire again, Lucius spoke further. “What did you do that you think was so reprehensible?”

Everything. Severus was doomed to repeat the same mistakes throughout his life. He always lost control of his mouth when he was upset with someone. Da, Lily, his mum and Lucius each more than once, and now Tom. Only Lucius and Mam ever came back, and he could have done without the latter. He hurt people rather than let himself be hurt. No, that was a lie—he hurt people to cut down their power after they had hurt him. Severus was the worst sort of person.

Deep in his self-recrimination, he answered, “I said he was ashamed of me.” Lucius laughed at that. It was not appreciated.

“Severus, cousin, why would you say that Tom Riddle was ashamed of you?”

“He took Abraxas to meet his family,” Severus pouted.

“I had heard that from my brother, yes. Is that so wrong? They’ve been friends for nearly a decade, and I understand that my brother corresponded with Riddle’s father by post.” 

Lucius was pouring salt into the wounds, no matter how smooth his tone, so Severus lashed out. “Oh yes, darling Abraxas is such a model of a man. Tom should just go with him, then, and not waste his time pitying the disgusting bat.”

His cousin clucked his tongue in that disapproving way that cut Severus’ knees out from underneath him. If Severus hadn’t already been sitting down, he might have fallen over at the fatherly disapproval. “Abby and Tom don’t have that sort of friendship, Severus. If Tom brought him along to meet his family, it was purely as a platonic friend. In fact, I recall a time when you asked me to help you talk to Aunt Eileen about moving house.”

Severus flushed. “That was different, and I didn’t know Tom.”

“Would you have asked him along if the same conversation came up again now?”

Severus spat onto his hearth like the dirty heathen that he was rather than answer the question.

“You asked me along because I had the correct mix of qualities,” Lucius continued, undaunted. “I am your mother’s nephew, I could offer her financial assistance to transition back to the wizarding world, and I understood the circumstances of her current life. I wasn’t going to startle her. Correct?”

Severus glowered into the eerie green flames. “You know you’re correct. Your point?”

“Tom selected Abraxas for specific reasons that have to do with Abraxas. Salazar knows what positive qualities he sees in my brother, but there must have been something.” Here, Lucius paused long enough for his words to register with Severus. He resisted them, but their weight dragged at his shoulders until he had no choice but to acknowledge that Tom _probably_ had not been specifically slighting Severus. He sighed and rubbed stained hands against his temple, smudging soot into his hairline as he did so. 

Severus could hear the blond shift and settle in his chair on the other end of the call. “Why do you think you would have been an embarrassment, Severus?” Lucius asked in his lightest tone of voice, the one he used when he was soothing a fussy Draco.

“His da is a wealthy, distinguished Muggle,” Severus responded automatically. “I’m Northern trash.”

“You come from a wealthy, distinguished wizarding family, and Tom’s magical relatives are worse than trash,” his cousin responded bluntly. “How is his situation any better? You have more where it matters.”

Severus slouched down against the back of his sofa, letting his legs unkink and spread across his floor as he stared into the flames. Sitting on the ground like this, he felt relief that he was where he belonged. How did he even begin to broach Muggle social class with the purest of pureblood wizards?

“It’s different, Luce,” he sighed and cast his eyes around for his bottle. It was across the room; he gave it up as a bad effort. “We were both raised in that world.”

“Wasn’t he born into an orphanage? Abraxas was saying something to that effect, but I didn’t absorb the particulars.” His friend sounded disinterested in those Muggle particulars.

“He was raised in an orphanage, yes,” Severus answered carefully.

“That can’t be any better than Cokeworth, Severus,” Lucius played his move.

Fuck. “But his da’s his da,” he argued back. “He doesn’t have to like Tom, but he’s blood. I’m nobody.”

“You would have been his son’s guest. Treating you rudely would be inconceivable, if Muggles are even half as civilized as us. And anyway, you don’t sound like a Cokeworth boy anymore, Severus.” He could almost hear Lucius preening as he said his next bit. “I trained you well.”

Severus slid all the way forward so that his head thudded softly onto the floor. There was no point to even pretending to stay upright. “I’m not a dog, Lucius,” he grumbled.

“No. Dogs are easier to train.” He paused. “Are you lying on the floor?”

“No,” Severus lied.

He heard Lucius snort on the other end of the flames. “Have it your way, cousin. I’m simply not seeing how you could be viewed as an embarrassment. What did Tom say to make you think that?”

Their fight wasn’t more than two hours gone, but the words had blurred together in his mind. He remembered arguing over politeness and jealousy and discomfort and feeling distinctly on the losing end of each quality, same as he always had. Severus knew that he could hardly be described as a polite and trusting individual. It didn’t hurt so much because Tom was fundamentally wrong, rather, his implicit rejection burned for how accurate it was. 

It had only ever been a matter of time between them, hadn’t it? Severus found himself recounting all of the times he had told himself this wouldn’t last. Six months was a shorter acquaintance than he had been hoping for, but longer than he should have expected. They had a good run. It was time to resign himself to being content with his family. Maybe Abraxas would let him know how Tom was doing from time to time. He could be content with that.

“I can hear you pitying yourself, Severus,” his cousin’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“Sod off, Luce,” he grumbled right back.

“When would you normally see him again next?” his cousin asked, changing tactics.

“In a week, at his place. He’s probably set his wards to tear me in two the long way, though.” That had been in one of those books he’d acquired for the shop. Severus remembered the discussion. It seemed like something Tom would do.

Lucius spoke in that lazy, deadly way that scared Severus. “If he’s half the Slytherin that you and Abby think he is, he’d do no such thing. I would throw all of the Malfoy money behind destroying him if he harmed you.” That threat made Severus shudder; it was real, and it might work. “Too bad he’s the one to host. I don’t doubt that he would have come to you, but you will have to pull yourself together and go to him. You’ll make up.”

“How can you be so confident?” The unspoken complement to that was that Severus felt completely hopeless.

“Even if he never wants to see you again, he would be breaking his own wand if he risked offending our family, cousin. He owes you a chance to mend the bridge.”

“I should respect his distance,” Severus tried. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

“He didn’t want to fight more tonight. Giving it a week is respecting his distance,” Lucius reasoned back at him.

“It would be rude to push,” Severus retreated again. He didn’t want to think about knocking on Tom’s door and asking for a mix of comfort and forgiveness.

Lucius wouldn’t let him escape that easily. “Pushing would be going back after he asks you not to return. If he tells you not to show up, then you’re absolved of going. Let him be the one to turn you down, don’t preemptively assume that he will.”

As if that wasn’t the most terrifying thing in the world. Severus would rather eat the centuries-old preserved specimens in the back of Slug & Jiggers than open himself up to the possibility of rejection. Somehow, he didn’t think that either Lucius or Tom would accept that trade.

Lucius broke the silence that stretched between them, now that the conversation had been drawn out as far as it could stretch. “If it makes you feel any better, cousin, I promise to make his Wizengamot seat even more worthless than it already is if he acts like a prat. You say the word and I’ll politically destroy the man.”

Severus frowned at the flames even though Lucius couldn’t see him. “That does not make me feel better in any way.”

“It makes me feel better.” He could hear Lucius’ smirk, the bastard. “You’ll be fine. You’re a Prince. We get through.” Severus wasn’t sure he believed his cousin, but took comfort in his confidence regardless. He would always have this family.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an intentional anachronism in this chapter. I place [Whistlejacket](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whistlejacket) in the National Gallery of London during the late 1940s, though it was held in a private collection at the time. It _could have _been displayed there, it was already a famous painting, so please accept this as an artistic choice. :)__

With shaking hands, Tom retrieved the instructions he’d transcribed from the Muggle library. He felt exposed in this glass-walled telephone box, but he didn’t want to chance using magic lest he bugger up the damned device. There’d been the library, the waiting in line at Gringotts to exchange his money, and the location of a suitably-secluded public telephone already. He wouldn’t stand for another delay.

Tom scraped the nail of his thumb through the accumulated dirt on the glass panes as he waited for the operator to patch him through. Floo calling was so much simpler.

“Riddle residence.” His father’s voice was sharp and familiar.

“Father? It’s Tom,” he replied promptly. 

“Oh.” There was a momentary pause, as Senior must have been processing his shock at hearing Tom’s voice through the Muggle phone line. “Hello, Tom. What brings you to call?”

Straight to the point, as if this wasn’t at all unusual. It was comforting, even though his father’s words were reserved, because Tom could scarcely imagine discussing his anomalous behavior. Oh, yes, father, I spent three hours today learning how to place a telephone call so that I could talk to you. Pathetic.

“I was hoping to talk to you.” No, that was too obvious. Stupid, stupid. “I wanted to ask for your advice. Er, your opinion.” He was falling apart at the seams as he breathed into this wretched plastic device.

“My opinion about what, son?” Tom could picture his father’s reserved surprise. Senior’s eyes would widen slightly and his mouth would form a hard line, suspicious of the deviation. It’s what Tom’s face did whenever someone surprised him.

“You met Abraxas last week.”

“Yes,” Senior responded after a moment.

“He was acceptable?” Tom hesitated. He’d never before consulted another person like this. He wasn’t totally sure how the conversation was supposed to flow.

“Abraxas was a gracious guest.” Senior wasn’t elaborating, clearly unwilling to expose himself without knowing where the discussion was headed. 

Tom allowed himself a moment to lament the familial resemblance before he steeled himself to be more forthcoming. He tried to think about what advice he would have given to Severus in this situation. Probably he would suggest not relying so much on the other person to intuit his intentions.

He sighed. “I was wondering if you would meet another magical person. There’s someone else that I should introduce to you… maybe should have introduced to you first… I don’t want to rush you.” The next statement came out more quietly. “I—I appreciate what you’ve done so far.”

Tom’s father responded evenly and without acknowledging the last bit. “This person, she’s someone special to you?”

He wanted to sink into the floor. “He is someone important, yes.”

A beat. Senior spoke again. “Tom, could you meet me at the National Gallery tomorrow afternoon, rather than at the manor? I think we should talk in person.”

“Er, yes.” He took a minute to process the topic shift. “I can be there.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to it,” Senior said, and then he ended the call.

Tom left the telephone box with knots in his stomach.

* * *

He had only been to the National Gallery once before in his life, back during the war years when it was empty of art and full of music. Tom had escaped Wool’s on a miserable, lean summer day and looked for something to take his mind off of the way he had lost nearly ten pounds in a month. He’d had to salvage and recycle for that first month of summer break to get the spare shilling he needed to attend the concert. He had been devoted to that goal to the exclusion of all else, unable to practice any magic, and, at 14, drawing perilously close to the age where his schooling would no longer be considered an excuse to avoid signing up for national service. The promise of a place to be without risking being rounded up or harassed drew him in, but the environment he had found was entirely too hopeful. It was too much for him to handle, and he’d never gone back, not even when he had grown and the art had been returned.

Senior was waiting outside, in the square, when he walked up. He wore a suit in light grey summer weight wool that must have cost as much as the half of Tom’s wardrobe that hadn’t been gifted to him by Abraxas. Riddle Sr. was handsome like Tom should have been.

Tom’s jacket and trousers weren’t a matched set. They were appropriate for a day in the decent part of London, but he knew he looked, at best, middle class. His father looked wealthy. He felt like an embarrassment, given their obvious blood relation. 

“Ready to head in, then?” his father said in greeting. When Tom nodded, the older man led them in. He was clearly a regular patron: he didn’t pause at the entry, he knew which workers to greet, and he smoothed Tom’s way through the whole experience. Once they were solidly within the gallery, he didn’t stop to consider the layout of the building—he simply started walking in a direction as though he knew exactly where to go. He must have.

They walked in silence, as was becoming their habit. Tom couldn’t say how long it took before they stopped; he was preoccupied with not making a fool of himself. When they did, his father stood with his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight, as he stared up at the biggest painting that Tom had ever seen.

He knew there must be larger paintings in this very building, but this one was striking for its starkness. A chestnut horse with a flaxen mane and tail, rendered in lifelike detail and size, reared up on a field of flat tan. The scale and accuracy were breathtaking—it was as though the horse was real, and could jump out of the painting at any moment, and all of that without magic. The figure was not actually snorting and pawing the ground, like the horses in the portraits at Hogwarts, but its presence was not diminished by that. 

If anything, it would be a shame to see this beast in motion. His stillness allowed Tom to appreciate the way his powerful muscles were flexed in exertion and the alert set of his ears. If he moved, those qualities would be fleeting. Horses were lazy, after all. The animal would prefer to stand in repose.

His father began speaking. “I have two main interests in my life, Tom: literature and horses. I enjoy other things, of course. Music, art, and theatre are engaging. I find my work with the family estate and properties fulfilling. However, those two have been my passions since my boyhood.

“My father was a man of letters. His foremost passion was the family estate—he had a head for numbers—but he unwound each evening with a book, and he took great pains to stay abreast of literary movements, even when he disagreed with them. He raised me to respect the written word and my fondest recollections of him are of days spent in our library at the manor.

“He was not an athlete. My mother rode, actually. Fred is her gelding, though she doesn’t tend to go outside the paddock these days. She introduced me to horses as a child, and my father tolerated it so long as I prioritized my schoolwork.

“I did. Do not mistake me: I was an academically-inclined child, following my father’s path to Oxford. However, I didn’t want to give up the horses. As an adolescent, my father and I had something of a disagreement over the matter. I understand that most boys quarrel with their fathers at that age, but I believe we took it a step further. He and I didn’t speak in any depth for a year. I was away at boarding school for much of it, but prior to that, we had exchanged letters weekly. I still wrote and phoned my mother, you see, so the disconnect between myself and my father was plain.

“I was upset with him, but I fulfilled his wishes. I secured my spot at Oxford and prepared to go, even though I was not speaking to my father. I was young, and dumb, and thought that this was the epitome of self-sacrifice.”

Senior paused here to laugh privately. His story so far had been tightly directed, but its purpose still mystified Tom. He had no idea where his father was leading them, and they were still staring at the same horse painting. Senior hadn’t moved his eyes from it yet.

“For my 18th birthday, after a year of me not talking to him, my father gifted me a painting by George Stubbs.” Here, his father gestured at the horse in front of them. “It’s nothing so grand as this. Stubbs produced a lot of paintings during his lifetime, but you need to be aware that they are all technical masterpieces, and, famously, his primary subjects were horses.

“The painting that I own is smaller than this, and it’s not one of his well-known pieces, but it is a Stubbs horse portrait. Stubbs had been deceased for over a century by then, so it wasn’t a trivial effort to buy the work.

“Frankly, my father wasn’t a particular devotee of art. I’m not even sure how he thought of Stubbs, other than the possibility that he remembered how much I enjoyed seeing his work in galleries as a child. I hope that’s the case. I never asked. However, I will never forget that gesture. He didn’t understand that part of me, not like I might have hoped, but he came to appreciate that horses were an integral part of my life and made sure to demonstrate that to me.”

The two men, father and son, stood in front of the painting for many minutes longer. Other patrons filtered through, sometimes blocking their view or making conversation, but neither Tom moved from the post. Senior was lost in thought; Junior was scarcely breathing. At some indeterminate signal, his father appeared to gather himself and turn, at last, away from the wall.

“Do you live nearby, son?”

Tom blinked. Swallowed. Answered: “Not far.” A pause. “Would you like to have tea?”

Senior’s response was measured. “How many of your kind would I have to encounter if I stopped by?”

“Well,” he thought quickly, “we could apparate in. It’s like—like teleporting.”

“As in speculative fiction?”

“Something like that, yes.” Tom fidgeted with his fingers behind his back. “It’s not the most comfortable experience, your first time, but I could take you directly to my flat.”

“You would do that?” For the first time today, it was his father who looked uncertain of his welcome.

“Of course. For you, of course.”

So they did. Senior handled the side-along with surprisingly good grace; it must have been his physical fitness. Merlin knew that witches and wizards tended to be out of shape, what with all of the instantaneous travel. Tom put them down just outside his flat so that he could let them in proper. It was a small distinction, but he felt like this touchstone of normalcy might make the whole thing easier on his father. Thankfully none of his neighbors were out at the time, the whole experience was accomplished with a minimum of fuss, and Tom was even able to put his wand away again without drawing undue attention to it.

He could tell that his father was looking at his flat critically. It didn’t hold up well under his own examination, and he was the tenant, so he could only imagine how shabby it must have appeared to a man who had inherited a manor house. Blessedly, Senior did not comment and took his seat at Tom’s worn old table elegantly.

Tom boiled water for the tea the Muggle way. The old gas cooker in this flat was probably powered by magic somewhere down the line, but the knobs worked as expected, and that was enough to keep them on comfortable ground. He carried the tea set on a tray, even, no levitation at all. He thought his father might have been looking out the window that faced the intersection of his alley and Diagon while the water was warming, but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t want to be sure.

They resumed talking once they were both seated with their tea.

“Tell me about this other friend of yours,” his father prompted.

Tom shifted uncomfortably as he started speaking. “Severus was a year ahead of me in school. We recently became reacquainted—he’s Abraxas’ cousin, though that’s not how we met again. He’s a very smart man.”

“Is he like Abraxas, then? Old wizarding stock?” Tom looked up at his father in surprise. “I could tell, son. Your friend was well-mannered and he put on a good act, but he didn’t understand half of what your grandmother and I talked about. I see why you chose him, though.”

“Why is that, then?” Tom demanded. He felt defensive of his friend, though Abraxas hardly needed it.

“He isn’t the type of man to embarrass himself over not knowing things. He would have to be raised that way, to know how to emulate everyone else in the room when he’s out of his depth.” His father looked down at his cup. “It’s a skill I remember being taught by my parents.”

That answer passed the test, so Tom responded to his father’s question in return. “Severus is old wizarding stock on one side, and Muggle on the other, like me. He was raised by both parents in the Muggle world.”

“How does something like that happen? I thought your kind were rather… invested in the magical community.” If that wasn’t the most polite framing of blood prejudice imaginable, Tom wasn’t sure what was.

“It wasn’t like you and my mother,” he was quick to specify. “I’m not sure on the details, but Severus’ mother, Eileen, was disinherited by her family once she married her husband.”

“Your lot really don’t like us, do they?” Senior asked in an almost lazy drawl.

“Not much, no.” It wouldn’t bear to be anything less than honest. 

“And Severus, specifically?”

“He doesn’t like much of anyone on either side.”

“That’s a curious choice of friend.”

“We share that trait in common.”

Rather than acknowledge the standoff, both men took the moment to drink their tea. Tom opted for a second cup; he needed something to occupy his hands.

His father cleared his throat and looked at the teapot with feigned interest. “Are there many people like that, in your world? People with both magical and non-magical parents?”

“It is uncommon,” Tom said. “More commonly, someone like me—they call us half-bloods—is the product of two magical parents, but one of those parents is a Muggleborn.That means that their parents were both non-magical.”

“That can happen?” Senior looked shocked, and Tom couldn’t blame him. It would be terrifying for most Muggles to discover this world, even if they could continue to support their child.

“Yes. People thought I was a Muggleborn for years until I learned about my mother’s family.”

His father considered. “I suppose that makes sense.” They wouldn’t discuss this further; _hic sunt dracones_.

The next words tumbled out of Tom’s mouth, partially because they needed to be said, and partially to distract from any further discussion of blood and ancestry. “I’m afraid that I upset Severus by not asking him to be the first person to meet with you and Grandmother.”

“You care about him deeply,” his father softly observed.

Tom felt like he was swallowing glass to expose this part of himself. It was too risky to contemplate and yet impossible not to do. “Very much so.”

“If he cares about you, he should find his way back around.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You would hardly be having this conversation with me if he hadn’t upset you,” his father said bluntly. “I’m not under any delusions about you and I, son. This is the heaviest discussion we have shared for any length of time since our first meeting. Something is bothering you, and it must be this Severus.”

Tom could only nod in agreement. Parents really could see right through you. He didn’t like it, but there was an abstract comfort in the experience.

“He should come around,” Senior repeated. “When he does, and some time has righted things between you two, bring him to meet us. No magic in the house, though. I can tell he’s less polite company; make sure he knows that won’t be tolerated.”

“I will,” Tom promised. “It… doesn’t bother you? That I…” His words faltered, unable to speak plainly about something so intimate. He felt his cheeks turn mortifyingly splotchy and fidgeted with the handle of his teacup as he looked away.

“Tom,” his father tried to draw his attention back. “I studied literature at Oxford in the 1920s. I’m hardly scandalized.”

He stared at his father disbelievingly. “But aren’t you expecting an heir?”

Senior actually rolled his eyes. “I planned to die without remarrying and I wasn’t sure that you existed. What happens to the Riddle estate after us is not my concern.”

Us.

“Tom—do you want financial support? I don’t know if my money is good in your world, but it’s yours if you would like.”

The words hit Tom like a bludger. Us. Money. Us. They were a family. His father didn’t hate him—not for being poor, not for being a wizard, not for loving a man. 

Oh, fuck. Did he love Severus?

No. He occluded that thought away for consideration at a much, much later date.

One thing at a time. His father, drinking his discount tea in his run-down flat, had sized up the situation and offered him an out.

But he hadn’t assumed that Tom wanted it. He could hug his father for that.

He turned down the offer. “Your money would be good in this world, but no, thank you. I live comfortably with what I have.”

His father countered the refusal. “Your grandmother would like to gift you some things. No money, not if you don’t want it, but things that you would have been given if you’d grown up with us. Would that be acceptable?”

“I could accept that, given the constraints of my space.”

“Isn’t there something magic you could do to take care of that issue?” His father seemed, for the first time, earnestly curious about the limits and uses of magic. It was a positive sign, and Tom dared to hope that he might be able to walk around the wizarding world someday. Maybe not soon, but someday. 

“There’s ways, yes. We shrink objects in storage. But I would hate to accept anything that I’m just going to store most of the year.”

His father’s eyes swept over the small space, and he had no doubt that Senior was creating a mental inventory of what would fit. Being cared for by an adult—by a parent—was an unfamiliar feeling. He wondered if this was how Severus felt about Narcissa and her decorative pillows. “Please, father,” he urged, “not too much.”

“I’ll warn her,” he said. “She would buy you a new flat if you wanted it,” he said.

Tom heard the underlying sentiment. We would buy you a new flat. His father would take care of him. If he wanted. If he allowed it.

He wouldn’t allow it, but he couldn’t deny the overwhelming emotion of it all.

“Thank you, father,” he said. What he meant was: this means more to me than you can comprehend.

Senior readied to leave soon after that. Just before they prepared to apparate back to Trafalgar Square so his father could meet his car, the older man pulled something out of the inside pocket of his jacket. 

“This is for you,” he presented his son with a loose pamphlet of papers that appeared to have been typewritten. “When you told me about your friend, well—I thought you might appreciate this poem. It’s Auden, again. Pay attention to the language this time, but I think you might find the content of more interest.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter heavily references the poem [The Platonic Blow, by W. H. Auden](http://www.lapetiteclaudine.com/archives/Auden_The_PLatonic_blow.txt), which I suggest you read. It’s very explicit, be warned.
> 
> This chapter also necessitates a rating change for the story, so if you were following along when this story was T-rated, please note: the entire chapter is an explicit sexual situation. It’s also skippable, without impact to continuity.
> 
> Happy Birthday, Tom Riddle. Enjoy your shameless, happy smut.

_It was a spring day, a day, a day for a lay when the air  
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown._

Tom’s eyes ran over the first two lines of the poem repeatedly as he processed the words on the page. He flipped it over, thinking perhaps he had gotten something wrong and this was not the thing his father had wanted him to read, that perhaps he was missing some context, but no. This was it. The pages were numbered; the poem’s title stood proudly at the top. 

His father had given him an explicit poem—an explicit _homosexual_ poem.

Tom put it aside for the evening. He couldn’t manage to read any more of it while that thought was still new and making his stomach churn.

* * *

By the following afternoon, Tom felt ready to take this on. By sharing this piece of writing with Tom, his father had as good as said that he supported his son seeing another man. He would just… put Riddle Sr. himself out of mind and focus on the poetry. Tom was fantastic at compartmentalizing. 

He steadied his nerves with a bit of brandy in his afternoon tea. It was a lazy summer Sunday, he was dressed comfortably in lightweight linen and was barefoot in his warm flat as he slouched on his sofa. Tom wasn’t typically a man to pursue pornography—he wasn’t a man to pursue his own pleasure that often, truth be told—but this was literature, no matter how erotic. He had always thought that his prudishness was an unfortunate byproduct of his Muggle upbringing, but apparently, even that was less certain than he had assumed, if Muggles wrote erotic literary fiction. 

With a deep breath, he started reading. He got about a third of the way through before he had to restart.

The language was compelling. Rhyme and meter came together to pull him through the poem, urging him onward to the next verse, taking his hand and dragging him along in an increasingly frenetic pace that matched the actions being described. Tom saw that much.

_I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large._

The words made his fingers tremble on the page. He couldn’t read on without being affected. He’d hoped that restarting might inure him to the lustful curling of his gut, but his racing pulse and rising interest could no longer be denied. This poem might be literature, but it was also, undeniably, porn.

He sat up and grabbed for his brandy directly, taking a swig before replacing the bottle on the sideboard. Whether it was purely Muggle or particularly religious, Tom’s internalized sense of guilt over this persistent physical need was real, and he had to forget himself a little more if he was going to make it past the suggestion of a cock. His intuition told him that Auden did more than hint at intimacy before the end of this.

Tom undid his fly and let his trousers fall open as he resettled himself on his sofa. He sank below the height of the back, as though the thin cushions of the old furniture might hide his shame from the rest of the world. Resting his hand suggestively low on his stomach, so low that accidental contact with his member would be inevitable as it came to life, he read on.

His face flushed. The language was obscene. Tom couldn’t help but see the man’s cock, red and proud and, apparently, enormous, in his mind; he couldn’t help reacting to that vision. Size wasn’t intrinsically appealing to Tom, but weeks ago, Severus had ground against him and even that short contact had imprinted the length in Tom’s head. His dark-haired friend was carrying a magnificent member. His knees felt weak at the memory.

Tom dug his nails into his stomach to refocus, the sharp pain of the unfiled points calming his rising fervor. It would do him no good to have to attempt this again. He wouldn’t have the constitution to read something this dirty without the heady confidence of his own arousal to push him through.

_And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs._

His eyes fluttered shut and he imagined running his tongue along the curve of Severus’ arse and up the backs of his thighs, lean and strong and powerful enough to lift him. His skin would be that pale olive—paler than his face and hands, even—and his dark hair would stand out starkly on his legs, potently masculine. Would Severus shudder? Would he be sensitive to that sort of contact? Or would he sneer down at Tom kneeling before him, aloof and so incredibly unimpressed that Tom would have no choice but to work harder for his approval.

_"Shall I rim you?" I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent,_

Auden had the right idea, and Tom palmed his prick to the thought of Severus’ assent as he prostrated himself before his dour friend, licking and sucking in that deliciously forbidden way that made Tom blush down to his chest. He tore off his shirt, sweaty from the summer heat and his own arousal, as he consumed the rest of the poem rapidly. He didn’t require another man to tell him how to envision the main act of a blow.

Focused on himself, at last casting off his guilt, Tom let his second hand wander over his chest as he kept the steady pressure of his palm on his shaft. He wanted to lose himself in his fantasies of Severus to come.

It was terrible, really. The last time they had talked, they had fought. He shouldn’t be abusing his friend’s image like this, but the feeling of Severus’ hands on his back, holding him close, overpowered any lingering doubt.

What if Severus had pushed him down? Tom could imagine the feeling of the man’s heavy cock straining against his chest, begging to be freed from those fine black wool trousers his friend wore. If he could, he would unbutton that fly and pull it out to marvel at it. Severus’ prick was long, was it pale like him? Did it flush red and purple as he grew hard? Tom would torment the head until it was twitching and weeping and Severus was impatient above him. He knew how to nip playfully and tease with his tongue, how to hollow his cheeks and make his lips puffy and wet with drool so that the man he was sucking cooed sweet words about Tom’s pretty face as he grabbed his hair roughly. Would Severus be the type to talk and praise, or would he focus on his own pleasure, grunting and stuffing himself down Tom’s throat?

He groaned and squeezed himself tightly, pinching a nipple to hold back the growing pressure in his spine. 

Tom wanted it both ways. Severus should fuck his mouth ruthlessly, making Tom gag messily and drip with spit and come as he was used. He loved to feel so weightless. But then Severus should hold him sweetly and take him from behind, fondling his chest and whispering love into his ear as he moved slowly, languidly, inside of Tom. He arched his back, cupping his own tit more firmly as he imagined his lover’s spindly, inky hands on him. Severus wouldn’t touch his cock, would make him beg and plead for it even as he was so affectionate in his fucking. Tom would want to come on the sensation of his lover’s prick alone, thrusting deeply into him, hitting that perfect spot that made him moan and writhe.

Mindlessly, he slicked his fingers with a wandless spell and thrust inside himself. It was never as good as another man, but the hollow emptiness of his arse demanded to be filled with something. Two, then three of his long fingers entered him, and he arched and ground upon them like a degenerate, the rhythmic and lewd sound of his cock slapping on his own belly accompanying each downward thrust. His prick bobbed impotently, untouched, and he watched it as though Severus really was behind him, fucking him to the edge without letting him fall over, and a low moan spilled from his throat. 

He wanted to come but didn’t want to stop, needing to prolong the burning pleasure of this fantasy. He pinched and tweaked his nipples roughly, making them flush pink and stand upright, and pictured Severus’ sharp tongue and red mouth sucking them as he took him from above. His hole was loose and dripping with lube, now, trying to pull his fingers further in. He wanted more, and in desperation, Tom finally touched his neglected cock. 

Purple from the delay, dribbling precome steadily from the tip, it was a sight to behold. Merlin, he wanted Severus to see it. He imagined Severus admiring the lurid display, this debauched and needy Tom fucking himself to the point of distress while thinking of his dark-haired friend. Severus would want him to come, to spill his seed all over himself. Tom only needed to take his prick in his fist and tug twice before he was moaning and losing it, his release landing on his chest in heavy spurts of warm spunk as he tensed. 

As the waves of his orgasm rolled through him, he relaxed. He let his hands fall to his sides and his legs loll out, muscles unclenching as he dripped indecently. Tom had just enough presence of mind to vanish the mess and pull a light blanket over his cooling body as he drifted into a contented, summer afternoon nap.


	20. Chapter 20

“It feels like it’s been a while.”

Tom smiled at his guest, taking Severus’ cloak and beckoning him in. Only a week might have passed, but so much had happened for Tom—and, likely, for Severus as well—that the statement rang painfully true. He was awkward around the other man in a way that hadn’t been the case for months now.

Severus visibly hesitated, looking between the sofa and the dining table, until Tom took pity and summoned the tea set over to the sitting area. He had a new-to-him sofa, thanks to Mary Riddle; he might as well get to use it. The worn velvet chesterfield, slightly bald on the armrests, was nevertheless still more plush than his previous option. She’d also forced a matching pair of club chairs on Tom, barely used by his grandfather and taken straight from the deceased man’s vacant parlor, so he had a vaguely-respectable receiving room—if one ignored that the dining table was only a few steps away. 

“We don’t talk for a week and you get posh, Tom?” Severus asked with a raised eyebrow. “I feel… replaced.”

Was that a joke? Tom abortively smiled. “I have a grandmother determined to stuff a mansion’s worth of furniture into a one-bed flat.” Severus elected to take a chair, setting himself apart from his host, so Tom took the sofa as he prepared their cups. “I had to talk her down from a six-seat dining set and got stuck with the chairs in return.”

Severus grimaced like he’d just heard something unpleasant. “Tom Riddle, letting someone else push him around?”

Tom frowned at that. “Severus—” he began speaking, but broke and tried again, “—Severus, I like having a family.” It was difficult to admit. He twisted his teacup on its saucer, handling the china delicately so that it didn’t scrape and make a noise. He needed a steadying diversion. “I like my grandmother. I—I like my father. I’m not… sure how to have a family, but I’m giving it a try.” He looked up and fixed Severus with a serious look, warning him off the topic. “They are a non-negotiable part of my life now. Will you accept that?”

He watched Severus flinch at the challenge, the other man’s brow briefly furrowing before his entire face went blank. The sip of tea did not cover his reaction, and Tom did not break his stare. “I’m sorry,” Severus said stiffly.

Tom rolled his eyes, finally offering Severus a reprieve from his all-consuming attention. “Oh, don’t make it sound so easy.”

“This is new for me, too,” his guest argued back, placing his saucer and cup down on the coffee table with a distinct click. “If you had gone through with your original plan to just sleep with me, I could’ve handled that.” It was Tom’s turn to wince, reminded of his crude behavior, and Severus gained momentum. “I know I’m not the sort of man someone brings to meet their parents. And now, with your father—there isn’t anything official between us. I know where I stand. I got upset last week because I realize that now there might never be something. So, I am. Sorry. For being upset with you.”

Letting out a breath of repressed frustration, Tom glanced down at his own cup. He drained the last of his tea to buy time before speaking. “You talked with Lucius, then?”

“Am I that transparent?” Severus laughed humorlessly.

“A genuine Severus Snape apology would manage to be both more defensive and more self-deprecating, if that debacle from your fifth year is anything to go by,” Tom responded, staring down his companion once again.

“I suppose I deserved that,” the other man said with a frown.

Tom nodded once, sharply. “You did. You also haven’t answered my question.”

“I apologized,” Severus shot back. 

“You owed me that and an answer,” Tom corrected, slipping easily back into the role of the aggrieved party. He wished that he hadn’t finished his drink so soon; he had to restrain himself from fidgeting. 

“I don’t know what to say, Tom.” He looked sad, and it was completely baffling. All Tom needed to hear was that Severus could accept Tom’s family.

“Is it because they’re Muggles?” Tom was almost desperate to understand, and worked to keep the pleading edge out of his voice.

Severus shook his head vehemently, “No, never—”

Tom did plead now. “Is it something to do with your own father? Help me figure this out.”

With an ashamed glance to the side, Severus asked, “Do I embarrass you?”

“No,” Tom began delicately, surprised to hear his friend air that insecurity aloud, “you do not. However, Severus… I’m still getting to know my father. I can’t—you can’t use that as an indicator of what I think about you.”

“Yeah,” Severus sighed. “I’ve learned that.” 

He looked so despondent that Tom wanted to go touch him. Tom was completely unpracticed in offering comfort; he’d had to learn how to soothe fussy children back at the orphanage, but this was qualitatively different. It hardly seemed appropriate to offer to rock Severus and read him a story in response to his insecurity. Frankly, the whole situation bothered Tom. It felt a bit too much like Severus resented Tom actually having a family. No matter his attraction to the man, and no matter Severus’ help in connecting Tom to his father, this was a hard line. The Riddles were completely intertwined with Tom’s life and future. Still, the impulse to touch warred with this gnawing disappointment within him.

It must have shown on his face, because Severus spoke again. “I’ll try. That’s what I can offer.”

It would have to suffice for the moment, and so Tom moved the conversation on. “I talked to my father about you, this week,” he said with an offhand affect as he surreptitiously watched Severus. The other man started, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. “He’s looking forward to meeting you.” At Severus’ wide eyes, Tom continued, “He was _shockingly_ supportive, if you were wondering.”

“Supportive of… ?” The cool detachment of Severus’ pose didn’t fully hide the note of hope in his voice.

“Of your role in my life,” Tom said. He saw the look of uncertainty in Severus’ eye, watched the man opposite him open his mouth to speak, and raised his own hand in a gesture to wait. They would go back and forth endlessly, speaking in innuendos and half-statements, if he didn’t put a preemptive end to it. This was not a space for assumptions. “He helped me see that I shouldn’t put these sorts of things on hold. And, in that vein, Severus: I’d like to try dating you, officially.”

Severus blinked. “Officially.”

Tom dismissed his concern. “I don’t mean courting, or whatever awful customs Lucius schooled you through. I—If this is going to work, between us, we might as well find out soon. There’s no sense in putting it off.”

Severus lost his composure entirely, laughing, “That is the least romantic overture I have ever heard.” Tom scowled, and Severus managed to rein himself in a bit. “I’ve been propositioned using slurs, Tom, but you made this sound like a—a professional arrangement. I mean, how does this usually go for you?”

Tom threw up a hand and slouched back into the sofa defensively. “Forgive me for trying! Usually I don’t have to ask someone out _after_ they’ve thrown a fit about the relationship.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve ever had to ask anyone out. People fell over themselves to get to you at Hogwarts,” Severus said, loosening up the first time today. He leaned forward in his seat, looking more comfortable than he had a few minutes prior.

“I’ve had some lean years,” Tom admitted, not actually ashamed in his present company. “Store clerks don’t have the same social position as Head Boys, it would seem.” That, and cruising for trade with Muggles was much easier than navigating wizarding courting culture. “Can you claim you’ve done better?”

“I have my ways,” Severus evasively claimed, shifting in his seat. Oh, there was a story in _that_ , but Tom elected not to push on their tentative understanding.

“As long as it’s not someone I’ll have to see socially, then.” Tom revised his statement after a moment’s consideration: “Actually, I’d rather just not know.” Judging by Severus’ slightly-guilty expression, that was for the best.

“So—that’s it, then?” Severus asked after a few minutes of silence. Things weren’t completely comfortable, yet, but Tom thought it felt better than it had at the start of their visit. He thought they might move past this awkwardness, in time. 

Unfortunately, that put him in the position of having multiple strained, uncertain relationships to manage at once—as though figuring out his father hadn’t already been enough of a challenge. He held in a sigh, unwilling to imply any more awkwardness between himself and Severus.

“We still need to plan a date,” he said instead, and then commanded: “Come, sit with me.”

To Tom’s great delight, Severus followed the order and shifted to the sofa. Tom pulled himself close, intertwining their hands and resting his head against Severus. He felt a satisfying, warm jolt from the contact; Severus was completely oblivious to what Tom had been thinking about him, lying on his old sofa just two days ago. Their present physical closeness was a tease as much as a comfort.

Severus squeezed Tom’s hand and rested his cheek against the other man’s hair. “I can’t see you being excited about a dinner out,” he muttered, “Nor could I see you letting me pay, and I don’t fancy eating jellied eel on a date.”

Tom chuckled, even if it was at his own expense. “I like jellied eel,” he protested, “it’s a classic.”

“Yes, if you grew up in East London. The rest of us have better taste,” Severus sniffed.

“What, you and your Vimto are too good for me?” he shot back, emphasizing his disapproval with a soft jab to Severus’ ribs. The other man stifled a laugh, and Tom filed away the valuable information that he was ticklish.

“Okay.” Severus tugged Tom closer, thighs pressed together. “We both have trash tastes and should not try to eat out as respectable men. Lucius would be disappointed, but that’s on him. What would you want to do?”

“Have you been to the cinema before?” Tom wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask; he was hardly a regular movie patron. Something about being out with his father this past weekend had been inspiring. 

Severus shook his head softly, each movement brushing pleasantly against Tom’s waves. He stretched into the touch. “Not since I was a child,” he answered. “And even then, only a few times.”

“I’ve only been once, as an adult,” Tom admitted, his mouth pressed to Severus’ shoulder. “Let’s go see a film, Severus. Next week. Won’t you go out with me?”

Severus held Tom to himself, pulling the younger man into his arms. Speaking quietly, he promised, “It’s a date, my dear.”


	21. Chapter 21

Tom and Severus met outside the Leaky on a Friday evening. They’d found a cinema in a solidly Muggle part of London that was still walkable from the wizarding district, and Tom had read about a new film that was causing quite a stir in the Muggle papers.

The two men settled in to watch _The Third Man_ , letting their hands brush and link together once the lights had gone down. 

Severus was the first to speak after the film finished. “The choice of background music was… unexpected,” he said as they stood to leave. “It was almost farcical, at times, when the music would come in during a tense moment.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed. “I’m not sure what to make of that.” He lapsed into silence, looking ahead into the crowd leaving the cinema alongside them. They were surrounded by couples, young and old, and more than a few pairs of men maintaining a careful distance between them. It was a strange comfort, to be doing something so unremarkably normal, as if they were any middle-class Muggles—a class status that would have been an impossibility for either Severus or Tom without their magic. 

The younger man spoke just as they exited the building. “Would you do what Lime did, Severus?”

“Trade in diluted penicillin, you mean? His racket?” Tom nodded in response while Severus considered the question. “It’s reprehensible. Innocent people died.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed, “but would you have done it for the money?”

Severus turned to stare at him. “I can’t imagine making that decision. Would you?”

He thought for a long while as they made their way across the street, beginning the walk back to the Leaky. They could’ve apparated from an alley, of course, but neither was that type of wizard. “I can’t decide,” Tom answered honestly. He did not look to see how Severus received that; the other man’s sharp intake of breath was enough to register his cautious disapproval. “I can imagine being—well, I can imagine what it would take for me to prioritize my own life over another’s.”

“Surely, you don’t see Lime as someone in desperate circumstances, doing anything necessary to survive. He was an American. He could have left Vienna,” Severus argued back, the delicate gesturing of his hand brushing against Tom’s arm as they walked. “He had co-conspirators. It was a criminal enterprise, not someone stealing bread to eat.”

“You’re right, but I can understand the impulse. There is some price, some threshold, at which I’d accept that some ‘dots stopped moving forever.’ However,” Tom didn’t exactly rush to introduce his transition, but he might have spoken slightly faster than normal to avoid Severus’ judgment, “I know I’d more likely than not be one of those dots.”

Perhaps Tom was hallucinating it, but something like a shared understanding passed between them as he spoke. His companion seemed to compose himself, ensuring his hair was still in its tidy queue, before he said anything.

“When Da was conscripted, Mam put up wards around the property. It wasn’t—isn’t—much of a place worth protecting, but she owned it.” He did not need to specify that the Snape family wouldn’t have many options if they’d found themselves suddenly homeless. Severus dared to brush his knuckles against Tom’s hand, a small comfort for a difficult topic in a public place. “I doubt those wards would have kept out the bombs, if Cokeworth had been targeted in an air raid, but they prevented us from dealing with looters and vagrants. Most houses in our area were hit at least once during the war.”

Tom knew what he was doing. It was quintessentially Slytherin: share some part of your own vulnerability to ease another person into talking. It was effective. Tom had done it often enough himself. With Severus, it didn’t even feel like manipulation. “I was shocked to see Vienna on screen like that. To show the destruction so frankly—to see the dereliction in the buildings still standing—it feels radical. I think most of our kind don’t plan to re-emerge into Muggle London for another half-decade, at least, so they can avoid ever confronting that damage, and here Muggles are, memorializing it.”

He couldn’t help sidestepping his real feelings. He’d seen the type of death described in the film, children with gangrenous limbs dying slowly as their blood rotted them from the inside. His own mother had died in childbirth; who knew if she might have been able to survive, given the right Muggle treatment and medication. Not that he wanted that, anymore, but Tom couldn’t escape the question. He’d been a street rat until adulthood. Only his magic had saved him from a life of physical labor, and even the random luck of his birth into a “noble” wizarding family hadn’t elevated him past menial drudgery. What an absurdity that if he did escape the working class in either world, it would be his Muggle parentage that made it happen. 

“Their loss, really.” Severus was looking over at him, his dark eyes shining slightly in the light of the old gas street lamps nearby. He seemed content, the quirk of his lips just barely betraying emotion. “Orson Welles sure is something to look at.”

Tom laughed brightly, taking himself by surprise as the weight of discussing the war melted off of him completely. “Severus!” he cried, “You’re being absolutely brazen tonight. And anyway, while Welles might be quite fine, I think you’re undervaluing Cotten.”

“They make a good pair,” Severus agreed with a smirk before rolling his eyes into his next statement, “unlike that Winkel and Kurtz. As though we’re all so _flamboyant_.”

“The tiny dog was excessive,” Tom said as he nodded.

“The tiny dog was, at least,” Severus paused to look around them for eavesdroppers, and shot Tom a glare, “I will take it upon myself to murder you if you ever repeat this, but the dog was adorable.”

Absolutely scandalized, Tom began, “Severus you fucking ponce—”

Severus trampled his interruption. “The dog was adorable and you’re being a prick and we are _never_ discussing that again.” With a final warning glare, he made a show of moving on. “Anyway, the tiny dog was excessive but the suggestive stroking of the phallic candle was egregious.”

“What, you’ve never decorated with a phallic candle?” Tom put on a performance, looking at his nails with an air of disaffection. “Are you even really a queer without a penis metaphor in your home decor, Severus?” For his trouble, he was shoved hard enough to topple into a decorative shrubbery, shouting indignantly as he landed.

His companion laughed at his utter embarrassment. It was a bit cruel, as Severus was the reason he had to pick leaves off of his arse. “You dared to question my qualifications, Riddle,” Severus taunted as he waited for Tom to deem himself suitably clean again. “I’ll have you know Lucius Malfoy has personally vowed to end your political career before it could start if you upset me. More than once, I might add.”

Tom scoffed, brushing a final speck of dirt from his trousers with a dismissive gesture. “He can have it. What would I want with all that? I would have maybe half a century to make use of my title, and then I’ll be senile or dead, and the Gaunt line will end for good.”

“There’s always blood adoption,” Severus offered. “Are you truly uninterested in any sort of legacy?”

He considered his answer, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and rolling his shoulders for something to do. The early autumn air was just barely chilled; he’d have to switch his summer jackets out of the wardrobe this weekend. “In another life, it might have mattered to me,” Tom said quietly. “In this one… I haven’t had the stability to care.”

“Or the necessary insanity to say ‘fuck it all’ and forge ahead with some novel absurdity, I suppose.” Severus gave a sly smirk as he added, “You were the idiot messing around with a basilisk, I’ve heard.”

“I resent the characterization of my engagement with my ancestral legacy as messing around.” Tom glared at his friend. “Otherwise, fair.”

“Even among wizards, calling a class five magical beast an ancestral legacy is eccentric. You do realize that?” Severus asked with false concern. They had nearly reached the Leaky, just about a block away, and he and Tom both had lowered their voices to a hushed whisper as they spoke for fear of being overheard by other witches or wizards. Leaning toward each other, even with their arms tucked studiously by their sides, they were quite obviously a couple.

“What I realize,” Tom pulled back, returning his voice to a normal volume, “is that we’re about to walk into the Leaky together on a Friday evening past nine. Are we confirming this as something official, then?” He stopped walking while the pub was still a cross-street away, giving them the distance to make an intentional choice.

“I would like that,” Severus responded. He took Tom’s nearest hand and placed it firmly in the crook of his own arm as they walked boldly into the wizarding pub, sure to be seen by multiple people who knew them both. 

“Aren’t you daring?” Tom whispered to his companion, blushing faintly at the attention. 

Severus grinned, turning his head to face Tom in a show of intimacy as they made their slow way to the brick arch. “I have never been a coward, my dear.”

“No, that is definitely my role,” Tom admitted with no small amount of pride. What someone like Severus might call cowardice, Tom recognized as self-preservation, and he would never feel shame for that. As a plus, he could tease his paramour. “I am the fainting damsel, which makes you—”

“Oh, sod off,” Severus said crossly, though he looked amused. “I’m hardly Prince Charming.”

“Why not, Heir Prince?”

“A joke based on my name?” Severus echoed a long-ago conversation. “How droll.”

“Mmm,” Tom pretended to think as Severus tapped out the pattern to unveil Diagon. The crowd had thinned once they exited the back of the Leaky, and they were the only two people in this part of the alley. Diagon was similarly empty, so late at night; Knockturn would host a few revelers on the street, but they had survived their first appearance as a couple within a wizarding public, and nothing terrible had happened. It made Tom feel almost daring. “Prince, then, yes; the charming part requires additional work. Perhaps you’d be amenable to some practice—tonight? Mine or yours?”

Severus’ face turned pink, his eyes darting covertly over to Tom. “Er, mine is closer,” he mumbled, and Tom knew he’d won.

* * *

Severus was on Tom before they could make it fully through the door to his flat, his teeth scraping along the side of his friend’s neck. Was friend even the correct term anymore? Boyfriend felt both juvenile and inadequate; partner didn’t convey the depth of his feelings. Tom’s urgent mouth, sucking hotly under his ear, tore him away from those thoughts before he could become too lost.

They made their way to the bedroom by mutual unspoken agreement. Tom’s prissy insistence on removing his jacket and waistcoat was endearing to Severus, who would have happily trashed his own outfit, despite his regard for fashion, if it would have resulted in Tom on the bed more quickly. Soon enough, the two men were down to their shirtsleeves and pants, the coarse hair on their bare legs catching against each other as they rolled together.

Tom eagerly accepted his position underneath Severus, arching up into the older man. Severus kissed him, fast and hard, holding Tom down by the shoulders as he thrust his tongue into the other man’s mouth. Tom moaned out something indistinct, some enthusiastic plea for more even as Severus used him, and a hot flush ran through Severus at the noise.

He was gorgeous, his bedmate, and it was entirely unbelievable that a man as desirable as Tom Riddle would willingly be here, in Severus’ home, wanting Severus to have sex with him. Severus had had beautiful men before, but the circumstances were—

“Stay with me, love,” Tom murmured beneath him, kissing his jawline softly. He felt a gentle touch on his collar, and Tom’s bright eyes were asking permission to undo his shirt. Severus nodded, shaking himself out of his insecurity.

With precise, quick movements, both men shed their shirts. If Severus had been nervous to bare his chest to the other man, that initial fear had evaporated when his deft hands found the old ridges of scar tissue, gone indistinct with age, on Tom’s back. The outlines were no longer sharp enough to determine whether he had been at the mercy of a switch or a belt—for Severus, it had been a belt—but the familiar feeling of marred skin was unmistakable.

Severus poured affection into his next kiss. He held Tom close, pulling an arm fully around the man’s back, as he kissed him slowly. He brought his other hand to Tom’s cheek, where he stroked him so softly, so reverently, because he deserved this much and more. Severus was useless at speaking. He could never have found words appropriate for this moment, but he could put acceptance into his touch and hope that it was enough.

And Tom, precious Tom, was pliant in his arms, his eyelashes fluttering prettily as he gasped Severus’ name around their kiss. Tom clutched at Severus’ back, doubtless recognizing his own reminders of childhood, like he would be adrift without Severus to anchor him here. Severus felt—he felt _necessary_. Irreplaceable.

He dared to palm Tom through his pants. Received with an inelegant thrust, Severus ground his hand down harder; he let his long fingers tease along the edge of the fabric, at the other man’s inner thigh. Tom was a mess now, his hair falling out of its perfect waves as he tensed and arched on the bed, head thrown back against a pillow. He was already overwhelmed, unable to speak coherently, and it was almost too much—

Severus snatched Tom’s pants down. His own could stay on for the moment; he needed Tom prepared first. It was quick work to convince Tom to part his legs and bare himself, his hole pink and ready for Severus’ delicate touch. His moans—“ _Oh_ , Severus, _yes_ , please!”—greeted the addition of each finger, until Tom was thrusting back anxiously to meet Severus’ movements. 

He readied himself, fully stripping before taking his cock in hand. Tom was grasping and greedy, all arms and fingers as he pulled at Severus and urged him to “fuck me, already,” while Severus took his time to savor the slow breach of Tom’s arse. The other man found one of Severus’ hands and held it, intertwining their fingers in a gesture so painfully sentimental that he couldn’t—could not _stand_ it, could not accept it, and Severus began thrusting harshly, pounding into his receptive lover in order to drive all thoughts away.

Tom’s ardent pleas, interspersed with pathetic, soft moans, were unmanageably affecting. Each thrust jolted the man beneath Severus like it was the first; Tom was unpretentious in his arousal, letting Severus watch his cock twitch obscenely as he was thoroughly fucked. When he begged for release, saying, “Let me come, Severus, _oh_ , let me—” it took only two sharp tugs on Tom’s prick before he shot his seed over himself and collapsed back with a gasp, clutching at Severus’ forearms.

Severus let him rest for just a moment, then he held Tom close and rolled so that Tom was on top, lying limply on Severus’ chest. The angle was shallower, and Severus had to plant his feet on the bed to get leverage for each thrust, but Tom was demolished atop him: whimpering, oversensitized, and completely irresistible. Severus came quickly like this, whispering Tom’s name into his hair with his arms wrapped tightly around his lover.

Severus’ bed was a ruin. Tom’s come was smeared between them and would be a bear to wash off tomorrow. Severus’ softening prick couldn’t stay in Tom from this position, and he could feel the wet trail of his release dripping from Tom’s body and onto his own. The sheets would need to be laundered, perhaps even the blankets, and Tom was a heavy, dozing lump above him.

However.

For the first time in years, Severus had had sex with someone who’d known and liked him for himself. Tom trusted Severus enough to stay after, rather than dress and flee. He’d moaned and panted for Severus so prettily—and clearly for Severus, he’d used Severus’ name, should there be any doubt—and he was here now, tender and sleepy in Severus’ arms. 

Shifting his companion slightly so that Tom was more comfortably settled on the bed with just his arm and leg draped over Severus, he waved out the lights. Severus placed a gentle kiss on Tom’s head as he settled in to sleep, and he looked forward to the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate everyone who’s reading this story! Leave a comment and let me know what you think. :)
> 
> Also, come say hi to me on [tumblr!](https://phantomato.tumblr.com/)


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